


And They Were Roommates... Damnit!

by FadedSepia



Series: Clint Barton Bingo Lines [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Akward romance, AmeriHawk, Clint Barton Bingo, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton is a tease, Clint gets even, Clumsy Sex, Disaster Babies, Domestic Fluff, Epiphany, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family Feels, Innuendo, It's not indigestion... It's love, Let's hear it for pining, M/M, Mid-Coital Jokes, Misery Pining, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Property Desctruction, Roommates, Running with it because I can, Sam is both wingman and accomplice, Sappy, Sleeping roommate moment, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Sneaky Clint, Sorry Not Sorry, Steve Feels, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve is a trashfire, Strike Team Delta, THEY ARE BAD AT THIS, Vindictive Steve, Waiting in hospital is the WORST!, Wordplay, Yeah... it's love, author insert, comeuppance, fake romance, good ending, recognizing feels, sap, still not apologizing, stupid cameo saturday, two big idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2019-11-28 06:10:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 73,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Steve and Clint were roommates.Justroommates. At least, they were at the start, before they got close, and life got...complicated.





	1. Roommates

**Author's Note:**

> A series of fics based on Clint Barton Bingo prompts. This ended up going AmeriHawk. This was the first time I ever wrote the pairing, but that's part of the fun of the challenge, right? The main prompts were chosen from row 2: roommates, dancing, nightmares, Clint/Steve, and Barney Barton. From there, this story has expanded to include sixteen prompts (seventeen if you count the free space), although not all chapters are based on prompts, and some share more than one prompt per chapter.
> 
> This is a fic where Steve Actual Disaster Bi Who Left His Wingman in 1944 Rogers and Clint My Self Esteem is So Low You'll Need a Backhoe to Find it Barton try to maybe somehow live together and eventually smooch. Stuff is going to get very awkward before any smooches are had; that's just how it goes.
> 
> To keep pace with this challenge, most of was mostly un-beta'd at the beginning and very end, so there will be some typos. Thanks for your understanding, I hope you enjoy!

“You want to stay… here?” Clint almost dropped the pizza he was eating into his lap, turning on the couch to stare at him.

“Not all the time.” Steve finished his slice, trying to ignore the other’s shock. It had seemed like a decent idea at the time: Clint was still running missions to help with rebuilding SHIELD behind the scenes; Steve needed somewhere to, for lack of a better word, hide. Not from anything dangerous – spending time with any of the team, but especially _Barton_ , was hardly the best way to avoid danger – just somewhere away from work where he could at least make a pretense of normalcy. He’d thought this might be the perfect solution to both their problems, but… “If I’m imposing-”

“No, it’s just…” Barton shrugged, arm sweeping around the room as he spoke. “I mean, it’s not exactly _nice_ , Steve. You could stay somewhere with, ya know… a little less dog hair? A little more furniture?”

That was true; Clint’s place wasn’t what most people would have sought out for accommodations. It was lived in and repaired, if a bit less than professionally. The wooden floor showed water damage, the walls were full of holes from arrows and various necessary pinboard charts – though he’d heard Natasha once call them “stalker walls” – and the bathroom door had a nasty habit of swinging open, even when locked, to smash right into a body’s knee caps.

That wasn’t even mentioning the furniture; threadbare at best, ratty at worst, and some of which Clint had admitted to digging out of the garbage bin or hauling up from the kerb. The whole place was well worn, much of it far past busted, but it was warmly familiar. “‘s not so bad, Clint. It’s kinda homey.”

“Homey?” Barton flicked away the pizza crust in his hand back over his shoulder without a glance. It landed, as had the previous three, in the dog bowl by the kitchen counter. With a wuffle, Lucky toddled over to eat. “Or _homely?_ ”

“Look, Clint, I’m not… I never _got_ used to all the… posh stuff that came with being like _this_.” Steve mimicked Clint’s earlier gesture, though the _this_ he highlighted was himself. He’d grown – quite literally – into Captain America, but Steve Rogers was still in there, somewhere. And _he_ had started to miss his old hole in the wall haunts, especially the more time he’d had to spend in New York. “I came up in a tenement flat, shared a one room place before the war, and then it was barracks or a tent or a blown-out building, at least until I got _here_.”

“The tower feels so fucking empty.” That earned him a quirked brow and a smirk. “The place upstate feels just like the service, and they gave me a damn suite of rooms. My whole life fits in a duffel. I don’t _need_ all that…” It sounded pathetic to his own ears, bordering on whining, but it was the truth. “I’m not allergic to dogs, anymore, and… You said you had a spare room.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got space.” Barton pushed up off the couch. He motioned for Steve to follow as he headed for the stairs. “But it’s not like a real bedroom. Heck, I just figured it was some kinda really stupid huge closet with windows.”

“Trying to put me in the closet, Barton?”

Clint paused, turning to give Steve a quick once over, then snorted a laugh. “No getting you back in, Captain Spangles Smediums. C’mon.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Clint hurried through his own bedroom, trying not to dwell on why he felt embarrassed about the mess _now_. With Steve close behind, he opened the second door beside his real closet, glad that at least this second room was less of a wreck than the rest of the place. At present, it was pretty bare, holding only an old desk, covered with fletching supplies and a scattering of arrow shafts. It wasn’t much larger than an office – maybe four metres by three – but he could muscle in a decently sized bed, provided Steve didn’t sprawl when he slept. That would leave room for chair, maybe a tiny table.

Clint had never been sure what exactly had prompted someone to put in all the windows, though the light was pretty good. The room was on the corner of the building, with wide picture windows in each wall, and the southern exposure meant it caught sunrise and sunset. Which, yeah, might have been a selling point for someone who _wasn’t_ a spy who happened to be a night owl.

Steve’s expression wavered between agog and gleeful as he pressed in against the window to look down out at the evening street below. “It’s a solar!”

“I guess?” Clint made a note to look that up. _Maybe that was a thing back when Steve was coming up?_ The city equivalent of a deck or a porch? It would explain all the windows, and why it had been kept as a private sort of space. And, heck, if Steve was gonna be staying there some nights, at least it seemed that he was pleased with the room. That was a plus. “I mean, it’s fucking bright all damn day, so I don’t really use it, since I like sleeping. And, you know, not having people see my shit all the time.”

“The lighting in here is great! I could… I could catch both golden hours in here.” Steve was pacing the space, lip bitten in concentration as he moved between two corners. “I think I could get an easel set up in here. Would you mind if I painted?”

“Knock yourself out. Less destructive than target practice, right?” Watching Steve flit around the room like an excited teenager was something else. It was going to be a change – Clint hadn’t had a non-mission roommate since the circus – but probably not a bad one. Now, unlike then, he would have an easier time sleeping through any snoring. Unless Steve was wanting for company, Clint wasn’t going to be waking up when the other man left on his stupid ass-crack of dawn morning runs. Plus, the early morning light might be appreciated by the one guy that probably beat the chickens awake.

Steve finally came to a stop, rocking on his feet in the middle of the room with a grin. “How much is the rent?”

“Okay, one, nothing. I own the building. Two, you’re my friend, you’re not paying rent on a building I own. Three, literally the only way in here is through the bedroom; I’m not asking you to rent a closet, even if it is a – whatchacallit? – a solar.” Clint crossed his arms, jaw set. He didn’t need Steve’s money. Hell, Steve didn’t need Steve’s money. Whatever backpay SHIELD had worked out for Steve had probably been as much or more as he had earned as an agent.

Plus, Clint had a sizeable stash that he hadn’t needed to dip into in years, and that wasn’t even counting the off the books cash and less than legal ledgers tallying money from his pre-agent years. He could literally retire and still keep the rent up on this building for the rest of his life; probably well beyond given the rates at which Avenging was shaving years off his life. “No charge, just watch the dog and crash.”

“I’m not freeloading, Barton. And what part of ‘one room apartment’ didja miss?” Steve stepped forward, not quite into Clint’s space, at something damn close to parade rest. “How much?”

“Stop trying to loom, Steve.” Clint straightened out of his usual relaxed posture, matching Roger’s more rigid stance with a smirk. Time on the street and undercover work had trained him to make himself look smaller, enough that most of the team forgot he was actually pretty big by comparison. Granted, Steve was a freaking dorito-shaped beef mountain, but Clint had him just about matched in height, and that had to count for something. “That only works on Tony ‘cause he’s short.”

Steve deflated, if only enough to try a tactic that actually would work. Clint had thought this might happen. He watched the line of Steve’s shoulders drop, head dipping as he looked first down, then off to his left with a sigh. With a sheepish sort of frown, lips pressed in together, Steve looked back up at him through blond lashes.

_Damnit._ How was he supposed to argue with that? It was like trying to fight against Lucky’s pizza begging face; it couldn’t be done. “How’s, um… morning walks for Lucky, plus half utilities?”

The cloud that had settled over Rogers’ face vanished, and he had to remind himself that he’d already known Steve was playing him. “Deal!”

_Big little shit._ Clint knew his pouting wasn’t nearly as effective, so he accepted the offered hand and shook. It might not be so bad, having a roommate.


	2. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Rogers has a special technique for getting back to sleep after a nightmare, and Clint's willing to try it.

Steve curled up in the middle of his bed, glancing at the half-finished city-scape resting on his easel. He’d thought that, after four months, he’d have gotten further on it. The real trouble was that he was only able to get away from work two, maybe three nights a week, and half that time was usually spent asleep.

He’d garnered a reputation for being a particularly light sleeper, though that wasn’t actually the case. In truth, the serum meant Steve needed less sleep, but, if he could get it, he wouldn’t turn down the luxury of rest. It made for a lot of nights lying in bed with his eyes closed, picking through his thoughts, and getting very good at feigning sleep when he didn’t want to interact.

It also meant that when Clint had slipped back into the apartment, sending Lucky scampering from the foot of his bed and into the real bedroom, Steve had already been awake. He could hear Clint on the stairs, the sound of the hinges as the bedroom door opened, the slight _oof_ that signalled Lucky was trying to give Clint a ‘hug.’

“Hey, boy. Calm down so we don’t wake Steve, okay? Quick walkies… C’mon, up.”

What he didn't hear was Lucky’s usual galumphing as they left, only the barest of squeaks from the fifth stair. Clint must’ve carried him down. _Did he do that ‘cause of me?_   That was so... considerate? Sweet? No; probably only pragmatic. Being a one-eyed dog in the dark, Lucky sometimes tripped on the stairs at night. Still nice of Clint to worry about his sleep.

They were back soon enough, Barton once more hauling the dog up the stairs.

“You wanna sleep with me, or go back in with Smedes, boy?”

 _Smedes? Huh._ Not half-bad, as far as Clint-coined sobriquets went. Still, it had the same number of syllables as _Steve_. Same vowel, even. Oh, well. It could have been worse. He could have wound up as _Bitsy;_ Steve still couldn’t figure out how Clint hadn’t been webbed to a building, yet. The kid _had_ to have tried.

Lucky must have chosen him, judging by the way he could feel the foot of the mattress dip. Steve kept his eyes closed, but he could hear Clint’s muttering as his roommate shut their adjoining door.

“Traitor.”

With the dog now firmly wedged between his back and the wall, Steve made another try at actually sleeping.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

He was in the emptiness, again, striking out at the edges of his own mind, but it was off. No one else was supposed to find him here. There was something touching his foot, tugging him down. He snatched the knife from below his pillow, loosing it before he was even fully upright. He could see the spark as it pinged off something metal, ricocheting into the darkness of the room. Finally awake, Clint could now make out the faint outline of the shield, the mussed blond hair above it, the right arm waving to the side of it. “Sorry, Steve. Forgot you were here this weekend.”

“ _You okay? Hurt?_ ” Steve’s sign was janky to begin with, the shield still on his arm not helping, but he was putting in the effort. Had to admire a guy that tried that hard when he’d been dodging friendly fire just moments ago.

“Nothing injured, no. I’m fine. One sec.” Clint couldn’t tell how loud he was, but he’d tried for whispering; super-soldier hearing would pick it up. It beat worrying about being too loud. One guy with busted ears, and another who could literally tell you which way a coin landed by the sound; life was pretty effing weird sometimes.

He flipped on the bedside light, blinking a moment to adjust, and fumbled in his hearing aids, already talking. “Good thing you brought the shield this time. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s alright. I heard you yell. Thought you might have fallen out of bed.” Steve was unbuckling said shield, sliding it on to the floor. Something wasn’t right about it, though. Two straps shouldn’t have taken that long.

Clint shook his head. “Not this time.” He ran his fingers through his hair, then down across his face, trying to still the other thoughts racing around his brain. Falling out of bed would have been a mercy, honestly.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“In a minute. Hang on?” Now that his roommate’s arm was bare Clint could see the gash running along the outside. Long, though shallow, it was still weeping blood. He reached for the knives he kept strapped at the bottom of his headboard out of habit, fingers brushing only one hilt. There should have been three. One he’d seen ricochet off the sheild, but – Oh, there it was, sunk into the molding of the bathroom door frame – it seemed he’d thrown another prior to that.

Clint grimaced; it had been a while since a nightmare had set him physically attacking in his sleep, let alone with knives. He nodded to Steve’s arm. “Bandages first, then talking. Maybe.”

“But-“

“Nu-uh, zip.” He pulled his fingers across his lips in a zippering motion. Tripping around a few cast off bits of clothing as he lurched out of bed, Clint waved for his roommate to stay put. He snatched gauze and a roll of tape from the bathroom. Knowing Steve, the bandages wouldn't be necessary in a few hours, but Clint wasn't gonna slice the guy up and then not take care of it.

“Shoulda got the shield first thing, Ca- Steve.” Even if he thought of him as mostly Steve or Rogers, Cap still wormed its way out, sometimes. Which went against the whole ‘ _we are normal roommates doing normal things that normies do_ ’ vibe he was trying to keep up. It was more for Steve's sake than his own, although things like knifing your roommate in your sleep weren't things normies _did_.

Most days, though, he had no trouble being normal. Discounting the skills, scars, and sometimes sanity-issues, he actually was. Which made bandaging up Steve when he could practically _watch_ the wound healing extra freaky. Cool - because _SCIENCE!_ \- but still freaky, and more than a little humbling. He wasn’t all that special, by comparison. Aside, of course, from his aim. “I coulda taken out your eye, and I don’t think you want to match Fury.”

“I was just trying to help.” Steve might as well have been a kid who just got caught sneaking cookies before dinner; the guy looked genuinely remorseful for not thinking to defend himself from unexpected somnambulant attack. “Sorry about rushing in.”

Bandaging finished, Clint gave the edge of the dressing a little pat. His voice was purposely lilting as he answered. “Only fools rush in.”

“I get that reference. Tony played that song, and...” Even illuminated mostly by the bathroom light, he could see the blush creeping up the back of Steve's neck.

Man, he was fun to mess with when he wasn't being a shit about it. Who cared if Tony had gotten him hooked on UB40? It wasn't bad music, nothing to be concerned over. Plus, watching Tony and Rhodes sing it at karaoke was a rare - if terrifying - treat. He patted Steve on the back as he went to put away the bandages. “Yeah, well, don't think I'm a wise man saying it. All patched up, so scoot back to bed, Steve.”

Rogers was standing awkwardly in the doorway between their rooms when Clint exited the bathroom. He rocked on his feet, jaw tense. “Did you want to talk about anything?”

“Not really.” He'd never exactly had trouble sleeping through the night, but Clint's nights hadn't been calm for years. Of course, screaming in his sleep didn’t matter too much – having the top floor apartment in a building filled with people who had their own issues prevented questions, especially when you owned the building – at least until someone else was sharing an apartment with you. With Clint’s luck, earplugs were not going to be enough for Steve’s enhanced hearing.

It was something he knew might happen, but still. Steve was standing there like he wanted to _fix_ this, something Clint had given up on years ago. At this point, the polite thing to do would be to lay there until Steve zonked out, then sneak out for an early morning track-suit check. He retrieved his knives, heading back toward his bed. “Unless you’ve got a secret for getting back to sleep, don’t worry about it, Smedes.”

Steve tilted his head, not unlike Lucky when he was thinking too hard, then nodded. “Yeah, I got something. Hang on.”

He sat back on the edge of his bed, listening to Steve rummage around his room. He returned with a battered paperback, sitting at the foot of the bed and lifting the book triumphantly.

“You’re gonna read me a bedtime story?” Clint chuckled, shaking his head. His roommate, however, only nodded, already flipping through the pages.

“I’m readin’ ya chapter thirty-two.” That was his full-on Cap voice. Steve was serious about this. “Had to read this for lit class back in school, and it always put me to sleep. Tried it on the guys back… back before, and it never fails.”

“I don’t usually like to sleep with my aids in.” Clint tapped a finger behind his ear. Steve’s idea was a decent one, to be sure, but he couldn’t exactly listen with them out, and that was sort of the whole point of this endeavor.

“Oh… well...” He looked nervous, free hand resting on the opposite shoulder. “I could slip them off afterwards- wait, is that weird?”

“It’s fine. I’d appreciate that, if this works.” He tugged the earpiece from his left ear, unlooping the tube from his lobe, and tucked it onto the plywood-topped plastic crates that doubled as his night stand. “I’ll just keep the one in.”

He tried to avoid kicking into Steve as he slid beneath the covers. Clint stretched out on his left side, head on his pillow on his arm, and patted the empty space on the bed beside him. “Scoot up. That way you don’t have to perch like a bird.”

“Oh, sure.” Rogers shoved the other pillow aside, leaning back against the wall. “All set?”

Clint nodded, pulling the sheet up a bit higher. No one had read to him to put him to sleep in – damn –decades, probably? Years, definitely. Sure, he’d been read to, but not for any good reason. There were occasional times Natasha would read aloud for herself and he’d overhear. That week where a flash grenade had fucked his vision, and Phil had to read him the mission debrief. Barney shouting the words of songs they knew to let him practice his lip reading. But this? Clint couldn’t even vaguely remember getting an actual bedtime story. He nodded up to Steve, closing his eyes. “Go for it.”

Steve cleared his throat, inhaled slowly…

“‘Already we are boldly launched upon the deep; but soon we shall be lost in its unshored, harbourless immensities. Ere that come to pass…’”

… and started up the most convoluted damn prose Clint Barton had ever had the misfortune of hearing.

“‘...Thus speak of the whale, the great Cuvier, and John Hunter, and Lesson…’”

 _Damn, no wonder this put people to sleep!_   To Clint, it sounded worse than those awful long-form scripture readings one of the foster families had insisted they attend. Maybe there were some advantages to foregoing the whole traditional high school thing, if this was the shit he might have had to read.

“‘… and so in some small degree, with cetology, or the science of whales. Many are the men, small and great, old and new, landsmen and seamen-’” _Heh… Steve said seamen._ It was juvenile, sure, but it wasn’t bad as edge of sleep musings went.

“‘the long priority of his claims, and the profound ignorance which, till some seventy years back…’”

He was so drowsy, though, that his thoughts flitted away almost instantly. _Nigh night, Stevie Smedes…_

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

“N’nigh, Stmeeshh.” A hitched snort followed Clint’s mumbling, sliding into a steady snore. Steve closed the book, setting it on the make-do nightstand. He was in luck; Clint was still sleeping on his side, so getting the aid off wouldn’t mean having to move him.

He carefully mimicked the motions he’d seen his roommate do dozens of times over. Good thing he’d been watching. Not, of course, that he was purposely observing the man. A guy was bound to pick up on things; they were roommates, sometimes. He just happened to notice how Clint took off his hearing aids. Or put on his socks. Or mumbled sleepy thanks to the coffee pot under his breath every morning.

Steve tucked the sheet and comforter up over Clint's shoulder, watched as that mess of blond hair disappeared under the blankets. Clint rolled onto his stomach, star-fishing across the bed, snores dying down into little raspy wheezes as his face smashed into the pillow.

It was a fight, resisting the urge to pull his stool into the bedroom and stay up to keep an eye on Clint. Steve tried to convince himself with the fact that his roommate wouldn't want special treatment, but now - with the way he hadn't complained at the reading - that seemed a much less valid argument.

Lucky leaned in against his leg for a pet, which he gave. Steve hoisted the dog up and deposited him in the one patch of bed not currently occupied by some portion of Clint. “Stay.” If he couldn't be in here to keep watch, at least the dog could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in question is the 32nd chapter in Moby Dick, titled Cetology. I hated that book, and I hated that chapter most of all. It really can put you to sleep, and I would not recommend it.
> 
> Clint is referencing the UB40 version of _"I Can't Help Falling in Love with You."_ Tony and Rhodey kick ass at that at karaoke, and they're both too busy and focused to realize they mean it. (Headcanon over, back to our story-focus pairing.)


	3. Cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's having a pretty lackluster birthday, but maybe an impromptu guest to his pity party will help?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so you probably noticed this is not part of the original line. I stole this from the second bingo line because I had to. It means more awkward AmeriHawk, which maybe, dear reader, is the reason why you came?

Clint carefully unwrapped the specialty roast coffee that he'd gotten from Tasha the day before. He'd considered doing twelve cups in the percolator, but he was on his own this year; the French press would be enough. As the coffee steeped, he retrieved the thawed, double-wide slice of carrot cake - moist, and not too sweet - that he'd picked up at Hermanowski's and popped in the freezer on Monday after Steve left, setting a single emergency candle in the center. He pocketed the lighter that he kept with it. Peter had been nice enough to drop his pizza by twenty minutes ago, and it was still warm in the oven. Once he'd secured coffee, cake, pizza, and two plates, Clint Barton settled himself onto the couch, legs stretched over the cushions. Lucky curled up on the floor next to him, for once behaving around food and not immediately trying to eat any it. It was like the dog _knew_. “Good boy.” 

Clint palmed the lighter, singing tunelessly to himself, “He's of no use to anyone, why was he born at all? Because he had no say in it, no say in it at all.” Lighting the candle, Clint gave Lucky’s head a little pet, “Guess I gotta make a wish,” and blew the candle out. He hadn’t wished for anything on his birthday after he realized that birthday magic and Santa Clause weren’t going make his home any less of a shit hole, but it was tradition, right? 

He put one slice of pizza and the tip end of the cake on a plate, then placed it on the floor for Lucky. The rest of cake went to the side for later, and he served himself three slices of pizza. That settled, Clint flipped on the television, pulling up Errol Flynn's _Adventures of Robin Hood_ with a wan smile. Not the worst birthday; at least he wasn't getting shot at. Or, worse, in the hospital  _after_  getting shot at. 

Two of the slices were gone before he decided that now would be a good time to break for cake. Of course, like an idiot, he'd shoved the candle on between the layers, and it pulled out a huge wad of frosting-stuck cake when he removed it. Couldn't waste that. He only got birthday cake that he _liked_ on his real birthday, after all ; he got chocolate for his _official_  birthday so that he could pass the leftovers off to ‘Tasha. Carrot cake, though, was his _actual_ favourite, which was why he was determined to enjoy every morsel, even if it meant a little waxy aftertaste from a cheap candle. 

Of course, that was also why, when the door swung open and a half-soaked Steve Rogers wandered in, the first thing he saw was Clint, in purple lounge pants and his _shot-through-the-heart_ zip up hoodie, sucking on a pastel lavender birthday candle. 

“Hehy, Shtebe.” A blob of frosting fell from the candle and onto his chest, and Steve’s face took on a pained grimace that bordered on disgust. Great. Because what Steve needed was even _more_ evidence that his roommate was a human dumpster fire. Clint fished his aids out of his pocket, tucking them in as he set the candle down. He swiped the frosting off his chest with his hand, trying to ignore how Steve bit his lip and looked away when he went ahead and ate it, anyhow. Crap. He was just a garbage human today, wasn’t he? “Sorry about that… Is it raining?” 

“Yeah.” The silent ‘ _Duh!’_ echoed behind his words as he squelched out of his shoes, wringing himself out in the doorway. Steve slid off his jacket – just a light windbreaker, really – and if Clint had thought those stupidly tight shirts of his were a scandal dry, they were infinitely worse when wet. Rogers actually grabbed the towel usually reserved for the dog, vainly patting it against his hair. “It’s been coming down sideways since noon.” 

“Oh? Yeah, I hear it now.” He hadn’t bothered to open the curtains – his life looked less pathetic with the lights off – and he didn’t want anyone else peering in on his misery. The rain was so constant that he’d mistaken it for some kind of feedback; it must have been a deluge. 

Steve stayed dripping just inside the apartment, face incredulous. “Have you been in all day?” 

“Yeah.” His roommate was just gonna keep turning the screws tonight, wasn’t he? As if Clint didn’t feel badly enough, already, for taking time to remark on coming into the world. Now his roomie was talking to him like he was a sloppy idiot, and he was mostly right. He hand’t even taken his _dog_ out today; he loved Lucky, but he had to be honest. “Kate walked Lucky, and I… don't usually leave the house today. Better that way.” 

“Okay… Is there a special occasion I missed?” Steve was peeling off his wet socks now, wobbling a bit as he kept trying to stare him down. 

“It's kinda my birthday.” Might as well get this over with; not like the guy could get any more disappointed in him. “Had Coulson change my record. Lists my year, but Errol Flynn's deathday.” 

“And you just weren't going to tell me?” Steve’s face told him quite clearly that he had been wrong. His jaw tightened, brows knitting together as he gathered himself up to his full height. 

Clint sighed, dropping his cheek to rest on his upturned palm, as he glanced sideways at the other man. “No, Steve. If you hadn't come by, I wouldn't have said anything. I really don't see the point.” 

“You are my friend, that's the fucking point!” Steve’s socks, still clutched in his fist, squished onto the kitchen counter as a slammed his hand down onto it. “This is downright pitiful.” 

He was not incorrect, by a long shot. But who the hell was Steve to come into _his_ apartment, on _his_ birthday, and make it even shittier than it usually was? What gave him the right? Clint already knew he was being a pathetic, self-pitying waste of carbon today; he didn’t need Captain Steve _even at my worst, I’m better than you_ Rogers to tell him that. He fucking knew it already. “Yeah, well it's my birthday, and if I want to have a fucking pity party on my birthday I will!” 

Steve launched straight into the _voice_ – Clint always called it the _America Weeps voice_ – when he next spoke, managing to look imposingly frustrated where anyone else would have looked like a grumpy, wet cat. “You know what, never mind. I'm going to change, and we are going to talk about this.” 

Steve stormed out of the room, thundering up the stairs. Clint could hear him banging around in the solar, muttering to himself. Maybe he should turn his ears back off if Rogers was gonna to be a dick about this. After a time, there was an oddly triumphant shout, and then Steve was rushing back down the stairs – now in his pyjamas – jaw set and lips pressed thin, with something tucked up under his arm. He got about halfway to the couch before he threw the paper-wrapped lump, spinning it expertly into Clint’s lap. He stomped around the back of the couch, and only gave Clint the barest moment to pull his feet in before he dropped onto the other end of the couch. 

“You got me a birthday present?” 

“I was going to give it to you in October, but now that I know that that's bullshit you can just have it today.” Steve’s arms were crossed over his chest, gaze focused on the unmoving freezeframe of Flynn giddily up a tree, face having sunk deep into a full pout. 

With a sigh, Clint focused on the package in his hands. It was squishy, wrapped in simple packing paper and tied with twine. _Happy Birthday, ~~Clint!~~ ASSHOLE _was scrawled across the top in chisel-tipped black marker. He worked only a moment at the knot before opting to slide the twine off, though he was careful in unwrapping the paper. It wasn’t taped, and unfolded to reveal a carefully folded square of black fabric, which a light shake revealed to be a t-shirt. 

Clint got a lot of flak for wearing his own merch, but it wasn't like they didn't all have some. Tony wasn't going to pass up that opportunity, nor would he let someone else get away with knocking off their names. And this certainly looked like one of the few shirts Steve would have let him print, but it was just as certainly a mistake. The shirt was black, and should have had the standard blue and red star and shield on it, but neither colour had printed properly. It looked like the red and blue had gone down over each other. For all intents and purposes, there was only an indigo, or – dare he say it – a _purple_ star and target on a black shirt. Clint giggled. There was no _way_ this was real! 

“Yeah, Tony fucked up that run, and he really didn't want anyone to see it, but I snuck one out.” Steve chuckled as Clint turned what he was sure was a giddy expression towards him, smile splitting his face. “If you wear it around him, it’s going to make his eye twitch. And I know you're a whore for purple.” 

That usually would have gotten a snap out of him, but Clint couldn't fault Steve for being honest, even if he didn't want to prod too deeply at why Rogers calling him a whore didn't bother him as much as it might have. But, hey: Birthday swag? Hell, yes! He hauled his roommate into a hug, ending with a slight cuff to the top of his head, which he knew was Steve being a particularly good sport. Might as well press that pity luck this once. He added a squeeze and shoulder punch for good measure. “You're the best, Steve. You're such a fucking shit.” 

He left Steve back on the couch as he bolted up the stairs, dropping his sweatshirt halfway. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I'm going to put it on! Grab yourself some pizza, and we can split the rest of the cake, just keep Lucky away from it.” Clint was in his bedroom and tugging the shirt on almost immediately. He could have changed downstairs, but he had wanted to see how it looked, first. Which he was going to do. Any minute now. If he could just get the damn thing down over his chest-! There it was on. It was on, but…

It was a fucking Roger's smedium. And – _Oh, damn!_ – but it _clung_. To everything. _Eh-ver-ee-thing_. Guh! His uniform back at the circus hadn’t been this bad, and that had been  _designed_ to draw stares. The damn thing was stretched so much that it looked more grey than black, bordering on translucent. Thank god the apartment wasn't cold!

… Alright, so, maybe it wasn't quite that bad – maybe he was overexaggerating – but it wasn't the loose fit he preferred. His shirts usually pulled a bit at the shoulder, but only when he was moving. Clint could feel the knit draw tight and tug every time he _breathed_. Somehow, it left him feeling more naked than when he'd actually been shirtless. It didn't look bad, per se, but this wasn't his fit for a relaxing evening with pizza and movies. Steve was the only person he knew who wore things this tight when he didn't plan to very shortly remove them.

But it was a gift; a _stolen_ gift, that he couldn’t very well ask his roommate to exchange. Sure, from anyone else, this would have seemed like a bad play at sexy pyjamas, but this was Steve. He probably just grabbed it because it was there, right? And he'd already been kind of a jerk today. Time to face the music. At least it was one of a kind, right? Filched from Tony Stark by Steve Rogers himself. Clint headed back downstairs, pausing halfway to do a little ta-dah motion. “You grabbed me a smedium, Rogers.” 

“I didn't know your size, Clint.” 

“You don't even know your own fucking size, so I guess I expected too much.” He paused at the kitchen, pouring another cup of coffee for his roommate. He passed it over to Steve before flopping back onto the couch next to him. “Whatever, we can be smedium twins just for tonight, but if I chafe? I'm blaming you.” 

Rogers lifted both hands, palm up, in a shrug of surrender, going so far as not to complain when Clint swung both feet into his lap. _So warm!_ Perfect. This day was looking way, way up, and now it was time to give back a little of the kindness. He took a slurp from his cooling coffee, ready to get their little two-man party started. 

“Now, pizza, and…” The only problem – “… cake…” – was the four-legged fluff ball – “Shit.” – who had taken that one moment of inattention – “Lucky…” – to eat the entire rest of the slice.

Damnit. Doofy mutt just had to go and eat his apology, didn’t he? Steve’s head swiveled as Clint stared. Lucky wrapped his tongue up over his nose, chasing a white streak of frosting; he titled his head, dog smiling back at both of them, then trundled off to the kitchen to get himself a drink.

Clint was more disappointed for the other man than for himself. He knew how much Steve liked sweets – Clint had bypassed the deprived child candy cravings that seemed to hit both him and Nat – and hated that there wasn’t any left to share. Especially when he’d treated the guy like an ass until he’d literally thrown a birthday gift into Clint’s lap. 

“Sorry, Steve, you missed out on cake-” Hang on, there was some frosting on the candle! He lifted it from his pizza plate, ignoring the slight film of orange grease on one side, and passed it over. “There ya go. Last bite.” 

Steve’s whole face lit up – _Aww … cute!_ – as he took the sticky candle with a wide smile. “You’re sure? I mean, it’s your birthday…” 

“Yeah, but we always have to work on yours, anyway, so… least I can to is share the frosting, right roomie?” 

“Thank you, Clint.”

He had _expected_ Steve to just lick off the frosting and be done with it. Instead, he popped it into his mouth like … Huh. Well, he was certainly _enjoying_ the frosting, but it was a little reminiscent of… Naw. Steve pulled some weird pranks, but he wouldn’t stoop to that. What would be the point, right? Which was why Clint knew he was reading too much into that enjoyment. Because that wasn’t happening. Right? Right. Because he definitely was not watching Steve Rogers fellate the icing off of an emergency candle. Nope. Eyes on the screen. Eyes. On. The. Screen! Before he thought too much about it and made it weird. 

It was probably only a few seconds before Steve put the candle down and reached for his coffee, but Clint was left feeling like a creep for the duration. Once he was finished, Steve beamed back at him, and he found himself fighting the little nervous flip in his gut. Rogers – his _roommate_ , who was only here because he wanted a normal place to chill, and don’t you fucking forget it, Barton! – started in on his own pizza, talking around his mouthful. Just like the normal guy he wanted to be; Clint’s totally normal roommie who was maybe just a little too enthusiastic about sweets. “Sho… whush naow?” 

“Well… movie time?” 

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

By the time the film ended, Steve was leaning sideways, Clint's legs still across his lap, but with his head tucked under Clint’s arm. Said arm wrapped around Steve's shoulders, hand resting just above his collarbone. 

Clint yawned, widely, wondering if he should wake him. It was only eight-thirty. Steve must have been really exhausted if he’d already fallen asleep. And on this lumpy old couch, no less. The whole reason he had wanted to stay here was to relax, right? Best to just let him keep sleeping. Clint queued up his next favourite Robin Hood, settling back into the arm of the couch as Allen O’Dale started whistling across animated book pages, completely ignorant as one blue eye peeped up at him. 

When Steve snuggled in against him in his sleep, Clint bit down a contented sigh. He'd missed contact. Well, contact of the non-work-related variety. Physically, he interacted with people all the time, but rarely did he get in a good cuddle with anyone. Maybe 'Tasha, if he was sick and she was feeling particular, but that was a rare thing – barring hospital stays – and it had been years. Kate wasn't exactly a cuddler; he might get a one-armed side hug at best. Thor was good for a hug - if he was on planet and you needed free chiropractic work - but not much more than that. The only lounge and cuddle pal he really had was Sam, but work meant their birdy bromance was mostly digital high fives. At present, ninety-nine percent of Clint's snuggles were of the dog variety, and this was a pleasant change. 

He nodded to himself, eyes closing. He'd wake Steve up in a bit. For now, he was going to enjoy the contact. Pizza, a present, and unsolicited _human_ cuddles? Best birthday ever. 

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Tony Stark had worked his entire life to minimize and correct not only his errors, but those of everyone around him. He looked physically pained as he spoke to Steve now. “You want me to purposely misprint a shirt?” 

“For Clint's birthday.” 

“Right… So you want me to _purposely_ misprint a _single_ shirt to be purple so that your _roommate_ – and I'm calling him that to salve your pride, Rogers – so that your _roommate_ can have a colour -coordinated shirt with what is effectively your name slapped across the front? For his birthday? In _six_ months?” If incredulity could be distilled into a living form, it was currently staring at Steve Rogers from beneath a flipped-up set of work goggles. 

He nodded, feeling the red creeping up over his face, not trusting himself to answer without sounding breathy or stupid. 

“You just don't do subtle _at all_ , do you? Although, yeah, you're chasing after Barton, so I guess there aren't many other options.” There was that smirk he’d come to expect. Even as Tony loosed a rueful laugh, he stepped closer, giving Steve a good-natured clap on the shoulder. “Don't say I never did anything nice for you, Rogers. I mean, you gotta admit, it's pretty funny that you want me playing cupid so you can snag the one guy on the team who's actually an archer. But, hell, why not?”

“… thank you.” His voice was a whisper, but Steve really did mean it. He swept Stark into a quick hug, unmoved by his squawking. 

Tony squirmed down and out of the impromptu embrace, taking a step away, hands up almost defensively as he walked backwards toward the interface. “Ah, nope, stop, no more sap in the workshop, you'll give DUM-E ideas, and I can't watch any more telenovelas. I'll be your techy-godfather this once, just go. You're leaking sincerity everywhere, and it's going to stain.” 

The shorter man was now advancing, hands a flurry of shooing motions as he corralled Steve out of the workspace. “And get that smile off your face, Rogers. You look twitterpaited like that, and even Barton is going to ask about it.” 

Steve could still hear him muttering, even as the workshop door slid closed. “Alright, J, let's figure out how to make this look believable…” 

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

While he looked only barely awake from the outside, inside Steve Rogers was wholly ecstatic. He’d only been saving the shirt for Clint's birthday on the off chance that he hadn't the opportunity to give it to the other man sooner. Tonight had presented that perfect opportunity. He could not have set up a better scenario if he had tried. And he had, they just had all either fallen flat, or ended up with one of them injured – _“ Sparring Smedes? But we're off today …”_ – or, worst of all, with him getting a mouthful of kisses from the only other blonde in the apartment, who also had a bad habit of kissing his own ass every morning before he ate stale table scraps out of his bowl. 

This, though? This had been flawless. Cheer Clint out of a bad mood? Check. Manage not to grin like an idiot while giving Clint an _accidentally_ custom shirt? Check. Get to see Clint in said shirt that was deliciously too tight? Check. Eat pizza and cuddle? Check and check. 

Clint was bound to get the message this time. Surely; it wasn't like he would just curl up and cuddle with anything, or anyone… Natasha was an exception, right? Steve pushed that doubt to the back of his mind for the moment, pressing his cheek in closer against Clint's side. The arm around his shoulders twitched ever so slightly tighter. Perfect. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use old tapers as emergency candles, so my current emergency candles are: purple, pale pink, pale blue, red, and lavender.
> 
> The second Robin Hood is the 1973 animated Disney Robin Hood. Allen O'Dale is the singing rooster.
> 
> I was going to go with Errol Flynn's birthday, but it's only two days after Clint's (20 June vs 18 June), so I went with the day he died (14 October), which is why Steve says October.
> 
> Hermanowski's is actually a deli I used to go to in college. They didn't sell cake, but it's a fun name to say.
> 
> Twitterpaited (Twitterpeeted?) is stolen from another Disney classic: Bambi.
> 
> Yes, I know I ruined the Australian birthday song. But at least it's Clint singing, right?


	4. Barney Barton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint gets a reminder of why he doesn't invite his brother by for coffee.

It was coming on nine a.m., and he’d already been awake for nearly four hours. Steve had walked the dog, watched too many infomercials, checked in with Tony – insomniac solidarity at work with that guy – caught up on the day’s headlines, gone on his run, started coffee, and gotten into the shower by the time Clint had even hinted that he _might_ be in the process of waking up. He was just coming out of the bathroom when the semi-coherent mumble-lump – otherwise known as non-caffeinated Hawkeye – pushed past him on his way to the john, all but full-body pressing him into the door frame. “Mrnin,’ Smedesh…”

Steve knew he should not be thinking about how adorable that sleepy greeting was. Just like he should not be thinking about the brief press of Clint’s hip against his groin – shit, they were _roommates_ , damnit! – especially when the man at the center of those thoughts was wearing sleep pants slung so low on his frame that it was clear there was nothing beneath them. Doubly so when Steve was clad in only a towel.

Once he’d escaped back to his room, Steve pulled on the loosest knock-around jeans he had, along with a hoodie over his t-shirt. There. Embarrassment avoided.

He made every effort not to think about Clint, _just on the other side of the door, in the shower, wet_ , even as he slipped back through the main bedroom and headed down to the kitchen. Steve tried to calm himself down by setting out the ingredients for pancakes and omelets – mise en place, unlike actual cooking, he could do – but he was still on edge. Taking Lucky on another walk might give him some much-needed time to get clear of his roommate, decompress, process, and figure out what exactly he planned to do about all of this.

He was at the door, leash in hand, when a knock came from the other side. Whoever it was had their thumb over the peep-hole – never a good sign – and had showed up unannounced on a Sunday morning. Steve considered simply not opening the door, but Clint wouldn’t be upstairs for long. And, if this wasn’t meant for either of them specifically, whoever it was might cause trouble for the other tenants. No; he’d clear this up before Clint had even stumbled down for his coffee. Steve set his shoulders and opened the door. “Whadya want?”

“Who are _you_?” The man glaring back at him looked so much like his roommate – aside from the permanent scowl lines and auburn hair – that Steve couldn’t help wondering if this was another failed cloning attempt that had gotten loose. A battered backpack was slung over one shoulder, and he held himself like he was gauging his odds in a fight. He pressed up into Steve’s space, voice a terse growl of a Midwestern accent, corn-fed with wide vowels. “‘Cause I know you don't live here.”

Keeping a low profile took a backseat to keeping his second home safe. Steve found himself with one hand on the man’s chest, slowly strong-arming him backward into the center of the hall. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

There was a quiet beat as the unwelcome guest stared, before his brows dropped further. His voice was a growl, bordering on vengeful. “… What did you do with him?”

“Excuse me?”

“Where's Clint?!” Steve was taken aback as the man shoved past him, ducking under his arms, around his legs, body an acrobatic twist as he rushed into the apartment. “Clint! CLINT?!” Steve had only just turned around, but the intruder had already vaulted the kitchen counter, and slid to a stop at the foot of the stairs. “Oh, fuck me sideways, there you are…”

The man in question was coming down the stairs, hair still damp, towel in one hand as he jammed his second aid in with the other. Clint had opted for a different set of pants, but they were just as loose, and Steve worried he’d trip right down onto this whoever he was. Hallway intruder swiveled, still looking up even as he aimed an accusing finger back at Steve. “Who the hell _is_ that guy? You got a fuckin’ apartment bouncer?”

"Damnit, Barn! It's nine on a Sunday. Shut the hell up.” Clint pulled their _guest_ back into the kitchen by his arm, motioning for Steve to shut the door. “This is my roommate, Steve. Steve, this's Barney Barton, my older brother."

Oh. Well, now… that explained the resemblance. Maybe even a little bit of the movement; Clint had mentioned that both of them had a run as Hawkeye, but he’d also never exactly spoken well of his older brother. Steve closed the door and threw the latch, eyes never leaving Barney. He’d read the SHIELD file – picture redacted, so fat lot of good _that_ had done – on Trickshot. He struggled to press down the rising feelings of unease at the thought of _this guy_ in their home. Their apartment. _Clint’s_ apartment.

Barney – and, damn, was _Barney Barton_ a tragedy of a name – rolled his eyes as he dropped into one of the dining chairs. “Roommate? You don't hafta hide shit like this, Clint. I don't give a fuck who you take to bed.”

Oh. Well, that was unexpected. Steve could feel himself blushing, and very much wanted to take a step back, now. It seemed somehow intimately invasive to hear a stranger just dropping that tidbit before breakfast; brought the last shred of the modesty his ma had tried to shove down his throat up with a vengeance. Not that he hadn’t wanted anyone to know. He had tried to be pretty fucking obvious in his attentions…

“What?! Ah, shit…” A dribble of coffee was running down Clint’s shirt, spilled when he’d snapped his head to glare at his older brother. He swiped at it ineffectually before just giving up. Clint was halfway out of his newly stained shirt as he answered. “Barn, Steve is my roommate. He's in the spare room, we're not together. Could you just _try_ to not be such a fuckin’ jackass?”

… and, apparently, he'd failed at that. Or, despite his efforts, Clint either didn’t care or hadn’t noticed. Steve wasn’t sure which of those possibilities he found most disappointing. Lucky trotted up to his side, nosing the leash he still held.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Fucking Barney ruining a perfectly good pancake Sunday! Maybe good reflexes and bad timing were just encoded in the Barton DNA. But of all the days for his brother to drop in unannounced, of course it was going to be when Steve was hiding out at the apartment. Clint wadded up his shirt and tossed it onto the counter, giving Steve an apologetic nod. He could fix this; he was sure of it. Maybe he’d make the pancakes into airplanes or trees or something. Oh, no: Smiley faces! Steve liked those.

Barney tipped back in the chair, feet propping up on the table. They might have both been raised in a near literal zoo, but Clint had at least _tried_ to learn some manners. His brother poked his hip. “You got coffee?”

“About to have some before your busted ass rolled up in here, yeah.” He shook his now semi-emptied cup for emphasis, but made no move to make another.

“If I ask nicely, will you give me some?” Barney rocked forward, chair legs knocking into the floor.

Despite having already pulled out a second cup for coffee – he had  _planned_ to make some for Steve – Clint made no move to prep any for Barney. Instead, he crossed his arms, glaring down at his brother. “If I ask nicely, will you leave?”

“Um… Clint?” Steve was still looming awkwardly behind Barney near the door, clearly unsure as to whether or not he should intervene. He looked confused, almost disappointed, as he shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Poor guy was probably just as startled as he was, especially with someone being such an asshole in the middle of their kitchen this early in the morning. Not to mention that Clint wasn’t exactly feeling too pleasant, himself. He shook his head with a sad chuckle. “At ease, Rogers. This is just how we are.”

Pouring a second, and then a third cup of coffee, Clint set one on the dining table. The last he walked over to Steve, practically forcing it into his roommate’s free hand. Man, the guy was tense. He must have really thought there was bad blood between them. “Don’t worry, Smedes; we’re cool. Closest thing me an’ Barn had to love coming up was fists, so it looks kinda fucked up from the outside.”

“Looks kinda fucked up from the inside, too, and you know it.” Whatever calm getting his coffee might have imparted bled off of Steve the minute Barney opened his mouth. “Good coffee, though.”

But his words presented the perfect opportunity to maybe smooth things over, just the teensiest bit. Slipping away from his roommate, Clint snagged his own mug, plonking down in the chair opposite his brother. He straddled the back, elbows out. “Yeah, I know. Steve makes great coffee. ‘s why I stopped living alone.” Clint tipped his cup toward Steve with a grin.

Steve nodded, though he still looked vaguely ill.

Ah, well. His roommate didn’t have to like his brother. _He_ sure as shit didn’t most times, and he didn’t trust Barney, either. Which was something that needed to be addressed, now that introductions were finished, and they’d established Steve didn’t need to break any bones. “So, why're you here?”

Barney hefted his backpack onto the dining table, unzipping it to an eerily familiar sight: neat rubber-banded stacks of bills filled the bag. The elder Barton nodded once, slowly. “Paying out your cut.”

“Barney…” Of all the shit to pull in his apartment – his _home_ – and with someone else here – _Steve Captain America Rogers! Barney you fucking idiot!_ – of course his brother would be the culprit. Of course! Because if Charles Bernard Barnes was anything, he was a bona fide waste of sperm and egg and oxygen!

“Hear me out. I’m going away for a while, and - Jeezus-fuck, Clint, sit down! - it’s for Simone, okay?!”

He hadn’t even realized he was on his feet, one hand braced on the chair – which he had spun off to the side faster than he’d been able to think – until Barney said something. The response to reach out and choke some sense into his brother was too ingrained at this point. Clint let out the breath he could not remember sucking in, turned the chair back, and sat down heavily. “Simone? You guys are still trying to make it work?”

“Yeah.” Barn was still staring at Clint like he might get punched at any moment. Clint was still considering that as an option. “I’m cashing out what I have from – ya know – _real_ work. A half for us, most of the rest in a trust for the kids… and the last bit for you.”

“I don't need your money, Barn. Seriously.” Nor did he want it. Even if – and that was a freakin’ huge, helicarrier-sized _if_ – the money was clean and legit, how the hell was he supposed to explain a backpack full of _cash_ – though, at least it was twenties – just showing up in his possession for no reason? Not that he couldn’t get the money moved around, but laundering it wouldn’t actually make it feel any cleaner, and… _Damnit, Barney!_

His brother, unaware of or unfazed by Clint’s slowly compounding moral panic, pushed the bag closer. “You had to get a roommate.”

“He needed a place to stay; I don't need him to be here.” That last bit might have been a lie, almost. He didn’t _need_ Steve here, just like he didn’t _need_ a dog, or an apprentice, or a one of a kind smedium _Captain_ _America_ undershirt that he had maybe cut the sleeves off of and started wearing beneath his tac vest. He didn’t _need_ them, but he liked his life a hell of a lot more with them in it.

“Yeah, well, maybe you don't need this money, but I want to give it to you.” Barney sat back in his chair, voice low, almost pleading. “C’mon, Clint. You get what I mean. You can put it to better use. And I gotta start keeping promises, even if they’re old ones I’ve broken once or twice.”

“‘Once or twice?’” That described how many times he’d forgotten that Banner de-Hulked naked. The number of times his brother had fucked him over? Far too often to be called anything except routine. But the number of times Clint would – like the idiot he was – try to believe that maybe, just maybe, Barn might really change this time? Innumerable by most calculations known to the universe.

Because, yeah, he did get it. Barney wasn’t any less a victim of circumstance than Clint was himself; Barney’s circumstances just happened to cause a hell of a lot more self-destruction was all. Their lives had first diverged on one decision – literally _one_ – and spiraled in oddly mirrored spins from then on. It wasn’t that Clint didn’t get the screws from life all the damn time, just that it was most often him – and not other people – who wound up suffering for it.

Put them side by side in a room, and the only substantive differences were Clint’s ears and maybe a few pounds of fat around Barney’s middle. So if Barn needed to start over – was actually gonna try this time – Clint wasn’t gonna stop him. He could donate the damn money. Get Lucky some of the  _Avengers_ pet merch. Maybe treat Steve at that all-you-can-eat place that had started charging him by the hour once they figured out a depression-era super soldier took **_all_** - _you-can-eat_ pretty damn literally.

Fuck it. “Fine. You coulda put it straight into one of my accounts. I know you know a few.”

“Needed you to trust me.” His brother leaned in on his elbows, smile strangely sad. “Really did, Clint…”

“Yeah…” Sincerity was not something he was used to expecting, let alone getting, out of most of the people from his pre-Avenging life, most especially from his brother. It really didn’t suit Barney’s face – all that honesty smushing his expression into something bordering on pained – reminding Clint too much of nights spent huddled in the kitchen cabinets beneath the sink, pressed in close together, waiting for the yelling to stop. Too many memories.

Clint rolled his shoulders back, pushing up from the chair and crossing to the waiting mixing bowl.“You want breakfast? We were gonna make…” His voice drifted out for a moment as he realized there currently was no _we_ in the apartment. Steve and Lucky were nowhere in sight. The leash was missing, too, gone from the hook above where their shoes were piled up by the door. “…pancakes. Maybe eggs?”

“Naw, I- I don't really wanna hang around. Got a few more things to… settle, if you catch me? I'll be rolling on, if that's alright?” Barney stepped behind him. He rinsed the mug, leaving it in the sink. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Sure, yeah… Listen.” _Good luck. Stay clean. Don’t fuck this up, ya god-damned moron._ Clint wasn’t sure exactly what he was supposed to say. “Don’t be a stranger… Unless you wanna?”

“I won’t.” His brother rocked back on his heels, eyes focused on anything except the man in front of him. After a moment, Barney slowly – movements tentative and jerking – leaned forward, one arm going around Clint’s shoulder. Releasing a held breath, the younger Barton did his best to reciprocate.

It was awkward as hell, as far as hugs went, but if there was anything that suited both of them, it was a hug born of confusion, long-simmered resentment, and a steady affection. Clint walked his brother out, slipping into his old boots and locking the place up. He had a roommate to find.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

He did, eventually. First, he had tried checking the laundry room, followed by Kate’s apartment – Hawkeye was always game to let Lucky in, and rubbing elbows with an OG Avenger would just be added incentive – the elevator – damn thing mighta got hung between floors, again – and then back in the solar because Steve could be sneaky when he wasn’t busting down doors. After all of that, Clint ended up finding his roommate in his own favourite sulking spot; Steve was perched on the edge of the roof, face on hands and elbows on knees, his feet dangling off the side of the building. Like the good boy he was, Lucky had opted to stay at arm’s length from the edge, sprawled across the warming asphalt.

Clint gave his tummy a little rub, then settled down next to Steve. After a round of crap-tastic Barton versus Barton action, he would have come up here anyway, just to clear his head and enjoy the view, but Steve’s go-to escape tactic had always been just to run. Finding him here felt somehow wrong.

They sat in silence, watching Bed-Stuy stumble blearily into the late morning on the streets below. Someone – the hoodie and ball-cap made it hard to make out a face from above, but they were solidly built and walked like a serial killer – threw up in the alley, then murder-strutted off. The sign in the window of the chicken and waffle joint across the street blinked from _CLOSED_ to _OPEN_. A little girl, dark kinky hair in two puffy clouds of pigtails, giggled from atop a thin man’s shoulders. Steve Rogers sighed, face dropping completely onto his palms. “You don't need me here, Clint.”

So he’d heard that? Clint’s stomach roiled; Steve had so many hang-ups about needing to be needed. He should have known better than to phrase if that way, but it was already out there. “Yeah. You're right.”

His roommate slumped, even as Clint laid a hand on his shoulder. “But I like having you around. Company's nice, especially since you at least wake me up with coffee sometimes. As opposed to slobbering all over my face like this fluffy doof.”

Lucky gave a little wag at that.

“You're sure? I meant it about not bein' an imposition. Or a freeloader. If there's something else you'd need done, since the rent is so cheap..?” Shit, no. This was pure Little Stevie voice; slightly pissed, defensive, and with a sharp undercurrent of self-loathing.

Most days, whether they were in the field or not, Clint forgot that Steve had spent most of his life – more than twenty years of it – small and sickly. No one on the team today had ever really known _that_ Steve; the first Steve, and possibly the real one. It was where he’d gotten that boulder-sized chip on his shoulder, sure, but it also meant he nearly panicked any time he thought he wasn’t contributing. Two decades of regularly being an invalid had seriously warped Steve’s whole concept of _good enough_ , and, though rarely seen, the damage was pretty evident right now.

“You do plenty. Place is already cleaner than it’s been in years. And there’s art! Your sketches are way better than covering the arrow holes with target paper. Classier, too.” He pulled Steve into a one-armed side hug. “Shut up about it, alright? You don’t hafta _do_ anything to stay here, okay? … Just, maybe back off the edge a little and come in for breakfast? I don't wanna have to fish any more powered people outta my dumpster.”

That earned him a bare smile, the slightest quirk of a brow.“More?

“I'll tell ya later.” Clint stood, offering Steve his hand, and hauling his roommate upright. “C'mon. Coffee's getting cold, and you haven't eaten since five, right? You're probably already hangry, and I owe you some pancake faces.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Steve had gone off to mope. Steve had taken the dog and gone off to _mope_. _On the roof._ Clint could admit to ignoring a lot of things – both on purpose and by accident – but he was very attuned to _that_ sort of behaviour. He _knew_ disappointment. So the shot-down, barely there half-grimace was easy to recognize, even on someone else's face.

The more difficult realization had been _why_ his roommate – and they were _still_ roommates, so he'd have to tread carefully here because Steve was also technically his tenant – had looked so strangely bereft. Now he lay in bed, staring up at the blue glow of his phone screen, mulling his options. Clint focused on the tiny rectangle of light, thumbs itching to tap out the thought that had floated in his head since that morning. He opened a secure chat to Natasha.

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _I think Steve likes me._ ]

 **ArachNat**  
[ _Has he shot you yet?_ ]  
[ _Or did you two skip straight to addressing that tension?_ ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _Not everyone shows their love with bullets, 'Tasha._ ]  
[ _It might not even be a crush._ ]

 **ArachNat**  
[ _You think that's what it is?_ ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _It's something._ ]

 **ArachNat**  
[ _Do you want to do anything about it?_ ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _I’m not sure._ ]

 **ArachNat**  
[ _Well, call me when you figure it out._ ]

He set his phone on the plywood top of his nightstand next to his ears. How the hell was he supposed to _“figure it out?”_ At least without making a fool of himself, or making one of his best friends – Steve among only three people he’d trust to _live_ with him – horribly uncomfortable, or upset, or worse? Clint Barton curled up in the middle of his bed, head resting on his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I had to pop in a few cameos for the roof scene. I'm sure you all recognized Alley Vomit Guy aka Bucky Barnes aka Sir Not Appearing in This Fic. If you've read my [Bucky gets turned into a cat story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17832821/chapters/42077912), Shoulder Girl and Man are Bea and her dad (his name is Gerald). She switched the microbraids for natural hair this weekend.
> 
> Yes, Steve is a little hypocritical of saying Barney "I go by a nickname of my middle name" Barton has a shitty name when his best friend was Bucky "Same, and my initials are also B.B. because of it" Barnes. Triply so because he still works with Bruce "Did you know Bruce was retconned as my middle name because my first name became Robert?" Banner as friend. (They could start a club, really.)


	5. Birfday*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve tries to handle Clint's attempt to return the favour on Steve's birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This doesn't actually check off a bingo square, but I just had to write it. For anyone that doesn't speak drugged-up mumble-lump, there is a translation of Clint's words at the end. I hope you enjoy, dear reader!
> 
> (Also, there is something totally unrealistic in this story. See if you can find it. Have fun!)

As expected, Steve had had to work on his birthday. The plethora of celebrations on the fourth had all of the Avengers on standby, and damn if they hadn’t all been called out. The team, of course, had preemptively celebrated his birthday a week early, something he was more than used to. His birthday hadn’t really ever been for _him_ , even back before, and any celebration still felt like too much. He’d spent quite a few birthdays getting into fights in places he didn’t want to be; at least this time he was the one walking away once they ended.

His only reprieve was that he'd been able to stay in the city this year. Tony, Natasha, and Bruce had left for Latveria as soon as most of the doom bots had been cleared away. During the interim, Sam and Clint had ended up somewhere in the Midwest. Not that they'd had any real chance to tell him that – they’d only briefly lit up the all-call comm line to say they had landed around sunset – but Clint's vowels had gone all middle of the mouth and obnoxious, which meant he was somewhere close to fields and farms and empty.

When everything was over enough to call it a night – and he'd decided that the fine officers of the New York Police Department could handle the rest of the mess, thank you – Steve had stumbled back to the apartment. At a few minutes to midnight, hemmed by throngs of drunks and revelers, most of the people he passed were too busy focusing on the explosions of colour overhead to pay him much heed. The few that did only wanted selfies, or to say his cosplay looked fake, or – in the case of one loud little girl who'd been up a tree when the fireworks ended – to yell that _‘HawkGuy’_ was better, a point with which he had unequivocally agreed. (Too bad Clint wasn't here: He'd have gotten a kick out of that.) Lucky rushed him as soon as he opened the door, which meant that he was immediately thrust back into the fray, weaving through the last dregs of partiers as they headed home, but the dog finished his business quickly.

Steve hadn't been back since the Sunday previous, so it was a bit of a shock: Clint had been busy. There was a strand of red, white, and blue twinkly lights swagged across the kitchen. A large lumpy something, wrapped in eye-bleed-inducingly-bright holographic fireworks wrapping paper and a flurry of ribbons, sat in the middle of the countertop. On the door of the refrigerator, a trick putty arrow – just beginning to sag as the tac dried – suspended a banner heralding _“HAPPY BIRTHDAY SMEDES!” ;_ below it, another held a smaller note reading _“SURPRISE INSIDE”_ and, in tiny block lettering beneath that _“WILL NOT EXPLODE”_.

That last addendum was ominous, but not outside of the expected when it came to Clint and labels. Steve had insisted they start labelling things in the kitchen after he had accidentally mistaken rosin for powdered sugar – something that, given his appetite and copious amounts of syrup, had only become apparent to Steve halfway through the second waffle – but his roommate hadn’t been very thorough. Things like “ _FOOD ,” “NOT FOOD,” “MIGHT EXPLODE,”_ and _“ DEFINITELY EXPLODES”_ were all exceedingly common, but there were also the rarer _“ SAMPLE DO NOT DRINK,”_ the quizzical _“ POSSIBLY INTERDIMENSIONAL?”_ and the disturbing _“ PARTS & FLUIDS”_ he’d once seen on a rather viscous dark something in a green jar. (Steve secretly hoped that had been jam Barton just hadn’t wanted to share; he already had too much nightmare fuel to ask, though.) Still, Barton was always mostly honest in the danger level of his labels, so Steve opened the icebox door.

Inside were a few eggs, a case of beer, the makings of an eventual salad… and a cake. A chocolate frosted cake, exactly in the middle of the fridge, on an _actual_ cake plate, complete with glass lid, listing slightly to one side. It was iced simply, with a janky white cursive scrawling out "Happy Birthday Steve" on the top. On the glass were a series of sticky notes, each in Clint’s familiar tight block lettering. With care, Steve removed the cake, placing it on the counter, and started reading the tiny notes.

 _“STEVE:_  
_YOU NEVER SHUT UP_  
_ABOUT THE DAMN_  
_LAYER CAKE YOU_  
_USED TO GET FROM_  
_YOUR FRIEND'S GRAM,_  
_BUT I'M NOT ANY_  
_KIND OF 1930S… ”_

 _“… JEWISH BUHBI, SO_  
_YOU’LL HAVE TO MAKE_  
_DO WITH THIS. IT'S_  
_SAM'S GAN-GAN'S_  
_RECIPE, AND YOU DO_  
_NOT WANT TO KNOW_  
_WHAT I HAD TO DO TO_  
_GET HIM TO MAKE IT. …”_

 _“… YOU BETTER EAT THIS_  
_THING! ALSO, IF YOU_  
_HADN’T FIGURED IT OUT_  
_YET, THE THING ON THE_  
_COUNTER IS FOR YOU_  
_TOO. IT WON’T EXPLODE_  
_EITHER, BUT IT IS_  
_FLAMMABLE.”_

Steve stuck the notes, in order, on the upper freezer door before carefully resettling the cake beside the box and considering his options. On the one hand, this was all rather overwhelming to come home to, and he almost wanted to just spend a few moments admiring the coziness of it all. On the other, he had a cake all to himself – at least as long as the dog was willing to wait at heel by his side – and an apparently flammable gift left to open. Ignoring his curiosity had never been a habit.

The package was soft, and gave a little under his touch. It was also – Steve had to admit – better wrapped than his gift for Clint had been the month previous. Matte tape had been used to secure the paper, with the edges folded under to hide the raw cut-lines, and all the folded corners meeting in the centre on the bottom, once more secured with tape. Lengths of blue and red ribbon had been tied into an enormous looping bow on top; each ribbon had been curled, leaving a profusion of tiny springs that must have taken quite a bit of effort. Steve grimaced at the thought of tearing it up, now.

A small white envelope was tucked under the bow. He opted to open that, first.

WELL DONE  
YOU  
STILL  
EXIST  
(AGAINST ALL ODDS)

Very appropriate, and incredibly Clint. With only the dog sharing the kitchen with him, Steve didn’t have to stifle his giggles. He flipped open the card, once more greeted by the now all too familiar hand.

 _“ YOU ALWAYS COMPLAIN THAT YOU RUN HOT, AND IT'S THE MIDDLE OF THE_  
_SUMMER, BUT TONY NEVER FUCKS UP MY STUFF. HOPE YOU LIKE THIS._  
_HAPPY BIRTHDAY SMEDES!_  
_CFB”_

Setting the card to the side, Steve carefully slid the double-looped ribbon off the package, setting the carefully-crafted bow beside the cake. With that done, he tore through the paper, leaving a shredded mess on the countertop, and revealing something soft, blue, and knitted? Maybe crocheted? Finding the edge, he held the thing at arm’s length, giving it a little shake, unfolding a blue blanket with a red square at the middle. Though, now that he looked closer, was that? It… it was!

The heavy chevron that Clint had adopted as his own when he became Hawkeye was right there in the centre of the blanket, red on a blue field. Clint’s symbol in Steve’s own colours. Steve leaned back onto the counter, shaking his head. He knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up over this whole thing. It was a nice gesture from two friends, that was all. He settled for serving himself a large slice of cake, wrapping himself in his new blanket, and curling up with the dog on the couch. In the end, Steve made it through that first slice, and a second – all without dropping any in his lap or losing it to the dog – before he couldn’t help it.

He had to at least try to get through and thank Clint. And, Sam, too. Both of them. He thought to ring Clint directly first, but opted for the mission specific line; Hawkeye never seemed to answer the comms when he was on a mission. Usually because he was busy doing something ridiculous… or falling off of something… or both.

When the connection went through, after ringing for almost a minute, it was Sam who finally picked up, _“Sam Wilson, professional idiot wrangler, how may I help you?”_ Wilson’s voice had just a tinge of his _losing my god-damned mind_ edge, so maybe Steve would keep the call short. “Professional? Doubt it part-timer.”

_“Oh, don’t even start that shit, Cap. Between your dumb self running headfirst into tanks and missiles, and your boy over here trying to fall off of every damn building he can clamber up, it’s more than full time wrangling. I oughtta be getting overtime pay on top of hazard rates.”_

“Like you’re any better…” Was everyone reading Clint’s behaviour like that? First his brother; now Sam. Better not to dwell on it just now. He already knew that, whatever it might seem, Clint wasn’t thinking of him in that manner. “… And he’s not my boy, Sam.”

_“Whatever you say. Either way, I am much better than both your stupid asses. I do crazy shit at a pace closer to a normal human, so somebody might have a chance of stopping me, and with a parachute, which neither of you two idiots has figured out yet.”_

He really didn’t want to admit how right Sam was about most of that. “Yeah, well, anyway, thanks for the cake. It was a nice surprise.”

_“Not my idea, and you better eat it. Dumb dog ate the first one before we got it frosted.”_

“Cli- Hawkeye planned it?” Steve was sure he came off as more shocked than he’d meant to, but that thought, born out of the little tendrils of hope still squirming in his chest, wormed its way out. He could hear Sam chuckle on the other end of the line.

_“Didn’t need to be a super soldier to hear that one. Something up with you guys? Cause I know from experience that you’re both terrible to room with, and you sound more pissed that usual for the fourth. Did Widow not warn you Clint leaves his underwear in the fridge in the summer? Or did he catch you eating peanut butter with a fork?”_

“Shut yer hole. I got stuck with Peter tonight, and had Tony popping in on my comm the whole time.” There was a murmur of agreement from the other end of the line. The whole team had started not so secretly calling Stark _IronDad_ whenever he was off doing something with Parker, and Sam knew just how obnoxious of a hover surrogate-parent Tony could be. “Cake is really good, Falcon. Thank you. Tell Hawkeye I said thanks when you’re done.”

_“Oh, we are. It’s just that our buddy decided he’d meet the mean streets of Broken Bow face first, which – not gonna lie – funny as hell to know that a master archer busted himself up in a town with that name.”_

Telling himself that injury was just part of the job, Steve gulped down another bite of cake. His roommate came home with injuries on a regular basis, and he always bounced back fairly quickly. Still, Hawkeye’s idea of mild tended to line up far too often most people’s definitions of hospital-worthy. The man had literally once tried to walk off a bullet wound to the thigh. Probably best to get as much information from the more reliable source that was Sam than to ask his roommate directly. “Clint busted, or normal busted?”

_“Normal busted. Minor jaw fracture, but he’s on some good shit.”_

“How good?”

Sam must have pulled the headset off, because Steve could hear Sam’s muffled words – _“Derpy-Bird, you got a call.”_ – before there was an awkward mumble. _“H’lo?”_

Clint sounded so loopy. _Oh… he is going to be a trip_. While Steve disliked that the man had to get injured for it to happen, that still didn’t stop just how funny the experience of Clint Barton on drugs could be. Hawkeye _hated_ it, but that didn’t change the fact that he was an absolute riot on painkillers. They did very little to slow him down – sometimes, it seemed they actually gave him _more_ energy – but they _did_ release whatever minor inhibitory reflexes kept Clint from doing every idiot notion that popped into his head. So long as Natasha wasn’t there to look disappointed at them, Sam and Steve had taken to daring Clint into being completely ridiculous any time he wound up in hospital. (Though, to be fair, they didn’t have to do too much work, really.) It was all for good fun, at least as long as nobody called the cops to report a man in a paper dress running down the street singing show tunes. Or pretending to be the Dumpster King. Or trying to cart off every dog in the dog park.

Steve grinned to himself. If it had been anyone else but Sam, he probably would have told Clint that there were snickerdoodles hidden somewhere in the Quinjet, and that the only way to get them was to call Tony on every line in the Tower all at once. He’d have to save that one for the next time. Because there _would_ be a next time. For now, he would just thank his roommate “Hey, Clint. Wanted to thank you for-”

 _“Shdebe!”_ Clint’s half-slurred shout cut him off, and made clear that – if he hadn’t removed them – his tactical aids might be malfunctioning. Or maybe the painkillers had also killed Barton's volume control. Who could say? _“Habby birfday, Shdebe! Dijja gejjer caeg? Sham baegged id. Ish id good?”_

“It tastes great; Sam did a good job.” It was a good cake, but even the sweetness of the chocolate layers hadn’t thrilled him the way that blanket and the notes had. He was going to save those; even if they remained only friends, Clint’s gift was one of the most thoughtful things he’d been given in a long while. “And the blanket was very nice, too. Where’d you even _find_ that?”

_“I bade thad jush for joo, Shdebe.”_

“You…” Steve rubbed the edge of blanket between his fingers, tracing the tiny knots with a shocked sort of reverence. “You _made_ this, Clint?

 _“Yub! I’b a good kwo- kwosh- hooger. I bade thad blangged.”_ He sounded incredibly proud of himself, as he should be. The blanket’s stitches – they were stitches, right? – were remarkably precise and even; Steve had initially thought they might have been done by machine. His ma had done this kind of work, and had sometimes spent months working on something like a blanket or a church cloth. How long had Clint been working on this? Probably not before Steve had given him the t-shirt, but that had only been, what? Two, three weeks ago? When had he had the time, and why had he taken so much effort just for a jokey birthday blanket? Clint’s next words did nothing to calm Steve’s jittery, hopeful confusion. _“Hanbade wid lub, from Hawguy do Cab.”_

It was just a phrase. It was a trite, cliché phrase that didn’t mean anything. Probably. Maybe… Clint was on heavy painkillers. Steve knew that. Clint on painkillers was barely a functional human, and he had probably said the first thing that popped into his brain. Steve knew that, too, but… He could feel that little ball of hope choking up in the back of his throat. He needed to get off the line. “Um… Well, I, uh…” _Really wish you meant that…_ “I _lub_ it, Clint. Why don’t you give the comm back to Sam, yeah? Get some rest.”

 _“Ogay. I’b glad joo laig id. Bye, Shdebe.”_ There was the sound of muffled movement before Clint yelled. _“BALGON! Cab wans joo!”_

It took long enough for Sam to get back on the line that Steve realized he’d left the room. While he worried about Clint being left alone in his current state, he was more than relieved that Sam hadn’t been around to witness any of the last few minutes. He still had no idea what to think about all of… _that._

 _“Hey, Cap. Hang on. – No, you cannot just go out the window, dumbass! Stay in your damn bed!”_ There was the sound of a brief struggle, something metal clattering in the background, before Sam got back onto the line, voice a deliberate tease. _“So, heard you wanted me, Rogers?”_

Yes, being a shit with Sam was much better, and far easier than dwelling on Clint’s probably not real – but if only it was – drug-induced confession. “Only to kiss my ass, Wilson.”

_“That costs extra, Cap. Plus, isn’t it about time an old guy like you went the hell to sleep? You’ve been at it a full forty-eight.”_

“I’m fine. When do you guys get back? I’ll save you some cake.”

“ _Maybe don’t; we’ve picked up another AIM trail, so it’ll be two, maybe three weeks. Less if I can get this idiot to hold still and heal – God damnit, Barton, I swear, if you don’t come down, I’m gettin’ the Hulk tranqs! – I gotta go, Steve – Fucking flexy bastard, sit still-!”_ The line went dead to the sound of a tremendous crash. They would probably be okay. At least, they would be if the hospital was less than four stories tall.

Placing his dirty dishes in the washer, Steve put the rest of the cake back in the refrigerator. He tucked the sticky notes and card carefully into the envelope. Those were worth saving. With the apartment relatively clean, and the blanket still draped around his shoulders like a cape, he headed up the stairs, Lucky trailing close behind.

He could probably sleep in tomorrow, well today – the tiny alarm clock reminding him that it was well past two a.m. as he slid his card between books on the slim shelf acting as his nightstand – but the thought of tucking into bed in his own room seemed less appealing than it ought. After all, Clint had been right; it was an awfully bright room. With it being the middle of summer, he’d be getting a faceful of sunlight in less than three hours, and even _he_ wanted a little more rest than that today.

Stripping down to his boxers, he threw on a t-shirt he’d scrounged out of the bathroom laundry bin, only to belatedly realize it was one Clint’s. It hung loose, even on him, _Cupid Ain’t Got Shot on Me!_ emblazoned across the front, complete with a tiny arrow centered on the target letter ‘O’ of _Shot_. He should probably take it off. Then, again, it was so much easier to pretend he wasn't alone – wasn't _lonely_ – when he could lift the collar to his face and think back to how enjoyable Clint's birthday had turned out to be. _‘If I want to have a fucking pity party on my birthday I will.’_ Steve met his gaze in the bathroom mirror, unsurprised at the disappointment reflecting back at him from his own face. “Pathetic.” He turned off light in the bathroom, but paused at the edge of the doorway.

What he ought to do was go back downstairs and wedge himself onto the couch. He could draw the curtains, wrap up in his blanket, and snag a few more hours of sleep than if he stayed in his own room. Steve knew that was the appropriate thing to do in this situation. He also knew damn well that he had no intention to do it. He’d spent the past two days working, come back just in time to miss most of the celebration on his birthday, and just gotten a drug-induced declaration of (almost?) love from his hot roommate who wouldn’t even remember it in a few hours.

Steve Rogers felt he had earned the right, at least for today, to pout and do something stupid. Which was why, after only a brief moment of debate, he settled himself in Clint’s bed, taking his birthday blanket with him. The bed was almost twice as big as his own – the solar would have been all bed if he’d put anything bigger than a full in there – king-sized and easily capable of fitting two, even if they weren’t exactly sleeping, and maybe he should stop letting his imagination start down that path, but-

Lucky jumped up beside him, rooting around to make a nest in the comforter. The dog butted into his hand for a pet, and he obliged. Not the blond he might have hoped for, but a guy could dream, right?

Once the dog had settled, Steve pressed his nose into the pillow below his cheek, indulging in the lingering smell of Clint, stronger here,where it had only faintly remained on his t-shirt. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the impromptu movie night cuddles from the month previous. Still, while it might not be anything close to the real Clint – warm and solid beneath his cheek, steady breaths ending in the lightest of wheezes from so many breaks to his nose – it was the best he was going to get for now, possibly ever. Steve burrowed further into the bedding, head tucked on his arm, swathed in that scent, drifting off to thoughts of Clint Barton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually pair music with my work, but _["Even In My Dreams, I Can't Win"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFSvLf0hU00)_ by _The Bad Suns_ just kept popping into my head while working on this.
> 
> [The card Clint gives Steve is real.](https://www.redbubble.com/people/jcbills/works/25404597-rude-birthday-card?p=greeting-card) It was designed by Honest John and is up on Redbubble. You should buy it.
> 
> Here is the promised Mumble-lump to English translation:  
>  _"Steve! Happy birthday, Steve. Did you get your cake? Sam baked it. Is it good?"_  
>  _"I made that just for you, Steve."_  
>  _"Yup! I’m a good cro- croch- hooker! I made that blanket. … Handmade with love, from Hawkeye to Cap."_  
>  _"Okay. I’m glad you like it. … FALCON! Cap wants you!"_  
>     
> (Give yourself a point if you figured out the the unrealistic thing was - _*pause for effect*_ \- Clint crocheting a full afghan in two weeks whilst working full time! Crazy impossible, I know, but there are Doom Bots in this chapter, so cut me a little slack?)


	6. Bromance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Wilson is the best bro a guy could ask for, even if Clint keeps putting his foot in his mouth.

After four frikken weeks, two he’d spent restricted to soft foods, he and Falcon were finally back in the city. Clint had stepped off the train and headed straight for his apartment, promising Sam to swing by the tower later. He had figured on seeing Steve, inviting him along, and wishing him a very belated, if now more fully cogent, happy birthday.

Unfortunately, the other man hadn’t even looked Clint in the eye when he had arrived at the apartment that morning. Steve had thanked him for the blanket; eyes downcast, feet shuffling, and jaw set like he had the world’s worst wedgie. Clint had gotten only an awkward handshake and shoulder pat before Steve had disappeared up into the solar, mumbling apologies about having to remake Clint’s bed because of the sun; something that he was _still_ trying to make sense of. Clint hadn’t really been able to actually talk to Steve at all before his roommate had thrown his bedroom lock and started playing music.

His only consolation was that the little afghan had been draped over the other man’s arm.

Clint had opted to just clean up and head back to the tower. He’d knocked on the solar door, trying to invite Steve along, but only gotten a muffled acknowledgement before he’d left.

If he had pissed Steve off, Clint could at least make sure he had some more time to himself. Though, he really hoped that wasn’t the case. It had probably been his own misinterpretation taking it as interest, but Steve’s behaviour around him had changed enough, even before this last mission, that Clint knew _something_ was going on, even if he still wasn’t sure exactly _why_.

There was still that hope, though; flittering through his mind, sitting in his chat history with Natasha. The idea that Steve’s weirdness might be due to attraction, as opposed to some general fuck-up on his part, still didn’t quite fit right, still hurt Clint’s brain, even so many weeks after he’d first considered it. Now, back in the tower with Sam, he tried to push it back down, to leave it be as long as he possibly could. “So, how long have we got you for this time?”

“Taking the five o’clock train back down. Part-timers like us gotta have real jobs, right?” Sam grinned, leaning back into the sofa.

Clint shrugged back, grabbing another soda. “Hey, I'm semi-retired.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “And how is _semi-retirement_ working out for you?”

“It’s a lot more _semi_ and a lot less _retirement_ than I’d hoped. Still working too much, sleeping too little.”

“That all?”

“Pretty much.” Clint had thought about asking for advice with the whole situation back at the apartment. Sam _would_ be the guy to ask, but it didn’t seem quite right to put him in the middle of this. Not just yet. Still, he didn’t have to say a name to get some feedback on the situation. “I mean… There’s a guy.”

“Yeah? Someone we know?”

 _Too well_. Clint kept his face neutral and shrugged, doing his best to sound flippant. “I kinda have to know him for this to maybe be a thing, Sam.”

“Mmhmm.” Sam huffed. “You know what I meant, but keep talking.”

“Well, he’s nice enough, and I think he likes me.” Clint shrugged, looked away. He flicked away his empty soda can, sending it through a ricocheting arc off the table and into the bin.

“But…?” Sam drew that single word out into a full question.

“But I’m kinda worried, cuz he’s been out of the game longer than I have, and…” Now that Clint thought on it, he realized he hadn’t dated anyone seriously in four or five years, either. There had been a few flings, a handful of one-night stands, but not anything that even toed the edge of being a _relationship_. Not like the one he could pretend might be possible with Steve.

Of course, some of it was just because Clint had a bad habit of reaching out for people that really weren’t good for him; not that he was particularly _good_ for anyone else, either. Especially not Steve. The guy had so much going for him. Yeah, he was kind of a pain in the ass, but he was _decent_. That was what made this so frikken difficult. “Mostly, I can’t tell if he’s just being nice, or if he’s trying to make a move and just… really _bad_ at it? So it’s really damn awkward.”

“Has he tried anything? I mean, something overt?”

“Not really?” Aside from the birthday gift, Clint honestly didn’t have any concrete proof that Steve liked him, nothing stood out beyond the man’s regular geniality. It had seemed odd, that Steve had the shirt wrapped all the way back in June, but maybe he was just the sort of guy that planned for things like that. _The man with the plan, right?_ He chuckled, rubbing his fingers through his hair.

“I keep thinking it’s practice flirting, since it’s been a while for him. Like a training wheels kind of thing… ” He spread his hands, feeling more than a little defeatist as he looked back down at the floor. Steve probably wasn’t the type of guy to take advantage of Clint’s kindness – Clint knew he wasn’t a doormat – but he needed an outside opinion. He might be seeing something that wasn’t really there. “He’s gotta know I wouldn’t hold it against him… I mean, my reputation precedes me most places.”

“Yeah.”

“And I’m just worried I’m reading too much into it, or I’m gonna get invested and…” Clint curled up into his corner of the sofa, tucking his chin, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Maybe I’m just the safe, easy bet, right?”

“You’re not that easy, Barton.” Sam cuffed lightly at his side, just enough to put some snap behind his words, but still friendly. “Trust me; nothing _easy_ about you.”

“‘s why you haven’t gotten a piece.” Clint bapped him back, and – for a moment – they devolved into slap fighting across the couch. At least, until Sam wedged a hand up behind Clint’s knee, prodding until he dissolved into a fit of snorts and wheezes. “Okay, okay! I give.”

Sam took the opportunity to roll them both until he managed to fling Clint onto the floor, still snickering. “Maybe you _are_ easy, man.”

The double-bird finger guns were pure instinct for Clint, though he sobered as he pulled himself back up onto the couch, shaking his head. “Honestly, I’m kind of worried it’s a joke, ya know? It’s not like anyone is lining up to date _me_.”

“Hey, no, walk that right back. I know you have the self-esteem of a mange eaten squirrel, but come on, man! You’re not a bad catch.” Sam threw himself in a dramatic heap onto Clint’s shoulder, half upside down as he rolled his eyes. “Look, this is me, your very lonely straight friend, saying this to your face: Try it. Trust me.”

“Sam.” He gave the other man a push, but Sam just leaned more of his weight in, tilting until he was upside down, laying over Clint’s lap. Clint shook his head as he sprawled back against the cushions. “Fine. Maybe I’ll try to test the waters, okay? Some people are just hard to get a read on.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sam’s hand settled gently over his face. He sighed into his palm before dragging it downward, fingers tugging at his short beard. “Yeah, I know. Hard same, sometimes, man. Hard same.”

“Mmhmm.” Clint nodded. “Anyone _I_ know?”

Sam was silent for a long moment, long enough for Clint to look down and see the barest hint of a blush creeping up his temple. “Maybe…”

“Oh…” At least there was one guy Clint could get a read on, even if it wasn’t the one he’d hoped. Sam had never said anything directly, but between the half looks and the strange willingness to spar, the guy had poorly kept secret his willingness to die crushed between a certain set of thighs. “It’s Nat, right?”

“Wha-?” Sam sputtered, only once, then clamped his mouth shut, cutting his eyes to the side. He nodded, still looking like an angry kid who’d been caught sneaking cookies. “Yeah…”

Clint hummed in answer. This could work in his favour for confirming his suspicions. If he wanted to be even a little bit subtle about discerning Steve’s interest, he was going to need Sam’s help. And he did just _happen_ to know a certain redhead who also had a penchant for cocky flyboys. Natasha might even thank him. Providing he and Sam were both alive afterward.

“Well, maybe we could both do each other a little favour, since, yeah, you know my guy, too…” Clint ducked his head, leaning in closer so he could whisper. This wasn’t exactly a conspiracy, but the walls in the tower really did have eyes and ears. He couldn’t be too careful. “You’ve met my roommate, right?”

“You mean…” Sam blinked up at him, expression running through confusion and surprise, but settling on the doggedly determined one he usually put on before a fight. “This is gonna be like a mission, then, because he is the only guy I know denser than you…”

“Maybe, but I might have a way to find out that would work… for both of us.” Clint met Sam’s tepid frown with a wide grin, voice a bare whisper.

“Tony’s doing a labour day party for the SI dork brigade. He always likes it when I’m there – makes civilian security a little easier, see? – and if I'm working, it’s usually with my partner, but I can cover her rounds, so, I was thinking, we could be each other’s wing _men_?” Clint could practically see the wheels turning in Sam’s brain.

When his friend blinked back at him, head tilted in question, Clint was certain he returned the widest shit-eating grin he possibly could.

With a whoop, Sam yanked him down for a hug, palms on the both of his shoulders, putting their foreheads close together. “Barton, I could kiss your busted face right now.”

“Well, you might have signed your own death warrant – I can’t tell you where the body of the last boyfriend is – so maybe you’ve earned a gallows smooch, Wilson!” Just to be a shit, Clint puckered up a duck face, teetering on the verge of manic laughter.

At least, until the door slid open with a mechanical click, and he saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Clint could hear the swift, heavy tread of retreating feet just as the door closed. Someone had taken off running, and they were hauling ass to get away from the door. Someone tall, with a very specific run, who had a penchant for plaid button downs and khaki pants. _God damnit._

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Steve was only three stories up from the lobby when he finally stopped running, leaning back against the stairwell wall, and slid down to seated. He hugged his legs in close, cheek resting on his knees, wedged into the corner for comfort, trying to make sense of what he had just done. Besides, of course, possibly fuck something up in a very serious way.

It should have been obvious, though, shouldn’t it? _Of course._ Of course. _That_ was why Clint hadn't ever said anything that might be construed as more than normal roommate banter. _That_ was why he never seemed to pick up the hints, to be anything more than friendly. They were, after all, _just friends_.

His roommate didn’t need anything more than friends; didn’t need a boyfriend. Not if he already _had_ one. But of course, Clint was, at heart, a genuinely nice guy. He wasn't going to shoot Steve down directly, just wait until he figured it out.

Even if his roommate had been unusually subtle about the whole thing, it shouldn’t have taken Steve this long to realize that something was up. Any time they were on a mission together, Sam always asked after Clint. Always. Clint did the same as soon as he had welcomed Steve back from their shared missions. _“BirdBro needs to know, Steve.”_

Steve squeezed his hands against his elbows. It fucking sucked, but… He sighed. It was good for Clint. Really, good, actually. Sam was a great guy. Honestly, even though it wrenched to the point of nausea to think about, Sam Wilson reminded him a helluva lot of Bucky. Smart, head in the right place, smooth as hell, and- Oh…

Oh, fuck, he’d told Sam about his crush the same way he used to do to Bucky back then! Not that he’d mentioned it was Clint, specifically, but he _had_ asked for the man’s advice. Had he gone asking for help from Sam in talking up the guy’s own boyfriend? _Fucking shit!_

Steve banged his fist sideways into the wall, sighing at the slight dent in the plaster. How the hell was he supposed to fix this? He dropped his face into his hands, breath sighing out heavily over his palms. He would just have to go back up there and handle it. 

It wasn’t like he’d never been shot down before – Hell, he hadn’t ever actually _asked_ Clint out, so he only had himself to blame – and he was old hat at muddling through rejections. Even if he _had_ been quite overt about his intentions, he hadn’t actually said anything to Clint directly. He could – what was that phrase Tony always muttered? – spin this. He could spin it into just another awkward fumbling, or put on his best innocent smile and pretend he had no idea what his roommate was talking about if it ever came up. Surprisingly, that seemed to work almost as well for him now as it had before.

Pushing himself up off of the floor, he considered his next move. He should probably give Sam and Clint a little more alone time. It had only been… eight minutes since he’d bolted. He could go for a quick run, then go back like nothing had ever happened.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Eight miles of pavement later, Steve headed straight back into the lounge. He was startled to find Sam and Clint now firmly seated on opposite ends of the couch, very pointedly not speaking to one another as _Dog Cops_ ran in the background.

He hovered in the doorway, debating whether to enter and sit. His only options were to take one of the two chairs opposite the couch – which would have put him on either side of the television, facing them – or to sit right between them on the empty middle cushion of the large sectional.

He made for one of the chairs – not wanting to come between them – but was waylaid by Sam’s hand on his arm, tugging him toward the couch. “Hey, Cap, where you been? Figured you would’ve got here earlier when Clint dropped in.”

“Oh, you know.” Steve perched gingerly at the edge of the cushion, trying to keep the guilt out of his voice. “Just out on a run.”

“Yeah, no shit?” Clint looked straight at him – straight _through_ him – for only a moment before cutting his eyes away, focusing back on the wall-sized screen, and Steve felt his stomach drop.

Clint had seen him. Or, more importantly, Clint had seen Steve seeing him just about to kiss his boyfriend. And he'd also seen Steve run the hell out of there like his damn pants were on fire. Like the relationship _bothered_ him; which, the loud, lonely part of him noted, it did.

But he knew damn well he had missed – or hadn’t ever had – a chance in that regard. Clint had made that clear from the word go, and it was only Steve’s stupid hopefulness that had let him keep fooling himself. No wonder Sam looked awkward, and Clint looked pissed. Well, he was just going to have to suck it up and deal. With a sharp inhale, and trying to ignore the way he was _being_ ignored, Steve turned his best kicked puppy face on Sam. “Look, I know you're not going to be here long… And I’m… I’m sorry, about earlier.”

“No, it's cool, Steve, whatever. We’ve still got time.” Sam handed him an empty plate, motioning towards the cardboard box on the table. “Just grab some pizza before Barton snipes the last slice.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Steve pulled the kneaded eraser in his hand, trying to focus on his art without fidgeting. It felt like Clint had been glaring daggers at him all afternoon, since they’d seen Sam off at the station.

Not that he was undeserving of the man’s ire – he’d been the awkward clod that ruined a romantic moment and then monopolized Sam’s time – but Steve still found it unnerving. His roommate was tracking him whenever he crossed Clint’s line of sight. He didn’t look particularly angry, but it felt as if he were trying to drill into Steve’s skull with his eyes.

Steve just wanted to go back to not having to worry about keeping up a façade here; this was supposed to be the place he could relax, and he felt like he hadn’t unclenched since they got home. He wasn’t sure when, exactly, this tiny closet of a room had become _home_ , but it had, and it wasn’t supposed to feel this hostile.

He picked up a different pencil and tried to relax his shoulders, hazarding a sideways glance back through the door at his roommate. Even now, as he sat roughing out the lines on his current sketch, trying to take advantage of the August late evening daylight, Clint was watching him.

Ostensibly, his roommate was just sitting on his bed with Lucky curled up beside him, re-fletching a stack of traditional arrows, but Steve knew better. Clint was multi-tasking, eyes ticking between the work in his lap and the side of Steve’s head. It was setting the hairs at the back of his neck itching. Enough was too much. He had to say something. “Clint?”

“Hmm.”

He stood, crossing to lean as casually as he could in the doorway. “I wanted to apologize for earlier. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Steve, it’s no big deal. Sam and I were just messing around, so I get why it looked like-”

“No!” Steve felt the wood and graphite give in his hand, pencils snapping between his fingers. “I mean- I’m sorry. Goodnight.” He closed the solar door and locked it behind him, staring at the expanse of windows. It wasn’t even past nine at night, and it was the middle of the summer; there was still daylight streaming in. Why the hell had he said that? Now he couldn’t even leave the room, and he’d made things so much more needlessly awkward. _Fuck!_

He’d just have to sneak out after Clint went to sleep in… seven or eight hours.

Steve threw himself down onto his bed, pulling the pillow over his face. He couldn’t really scream – Clint was right there on the other side of the wall, _God damnit!_ – but he still shouted silently into the down, quietly cursing his own idiocy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been listening to a lot of stuff by the Bad Suns. _Love By Mistake_ and _Maybe We're Meant to Be Alone_ were a running loop soundtrack for the push to finish this.
> 
>  
> 
> This note is for someone that grumps when I leave notes like this.
> 
>  
> 
>   
>  You know who you are.  
>    
>   
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>  Enjoy the song feels.  
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> 


	7. Fake Relationship & Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve suffers from emotional whiplash and excessive thirst.
> 
> Clint's plan is flawlessly executed, with only a handful of broken bones.

Steve had been trying hard to be extra pleasant with Clint for the last two weeks. Well, one week, really; he had climbed out the window the morning after Sam left, taking his bike and heading back to the SHIELD facility upstate for a few days. He’d texted Sam to apologize, too; Wilson had just messaged that he was an idiot, and that he ought to head back to the apartment before Clint got lonely. When he asked why Sam didn’t go himself to keep Clint company, all he’d gotten was a five word message and a _NOPE_ emoji.

 **NerdBird**  
[ _You think I’d hit that?_ ]  
[ ( O Д O ) ]

Steve wasn’t sure if that was a joke, or if Sam had genuinely shot Clint down. Was it for his benefit? Or because of his interruption? He couldn’t tell. When he’d gotten back on Tuesday, his roommate had seemed unfazed by his disappearance, greeting him as usual, then shooing him out of the kitchen.

The only sign that Clint had reacted at all in his absence was that Steve’s bedroom door was unlocked. Barton hadn’t questioned where he’d had gone or why, and, while the welcome back hug had seemed to linger, Steve had put it down to Clint being unable to push out of the hug since his hands were covered in flour. His roommate hadn’t seemed angry or upset, nor like he was nursing any kind of broken heart.

It was… unsettling.

The few days from then until now had seen both falling back into their usual off-time routine, with Clint turning in a few hours before Steve awoke, and shuffling back down mid-morning to make breakfast – “ _Cereal is not a full meal; I would know.”_ – and drain the rest of the coffee pot. It was pleasant, if jarring, to come back as if nothing had changed. If Steve was honest with himself, he hadn’t really wanted to come back at all, but he owed Tony, which meant showing up at the Labour Day party, and his tux was here.

Steve could easily have gotten another one, a perk of being Captain America, but it wouldn’t have felt right, pulling that card just to avoid this apartment and the man who lived here. Plus, he’d wanted to wear this one; the one with the blue satin trim on the jacket. The one he’d kept at… at home. Which meant coming back, and stumbling awkwardly through the past few days of strangely off-putting normality, until Sunday.

Today.

He tipped his forehead against the glass, closing his eyes. No matter how much he might want to avoid who he knew was sitting downstairs – the source of all of his emotional confusion – he couldn’t very well sneak back out the window, again. After all, Clint was waiting for him, knew he was up here. Steve checked himself in the bathroom mirror one last time with a sigh, then made for the stairs.

Clint was perched on the arm of the couch, lopsided grin on his face. He was freshly shaved, hair combed back with some kind of product in it, smoothing the usual flyaways, not a bandage or bruise in sight. That would have been bad enough – clean and well-groomed, Clint was plenty handsome already – but then he’d had to go and look delicious in formal wear.

Given his taste for sweats, hoodies, ratty t-shirts, and jeans, and his regular habit of hunching or curling up when he sat, it was easy to forget how broad and, well, _built_ Clint was. Not that Steve ever had forgotten, not really, but it was usually easier to ignore. With Clint in something as structured as a tuxedo, however, that was impossible.

Hawkeye wouldn’t ever buy something in which he couldn’t move, so the cut wasn’t too closely fitted; the tailoring, however, was expertly done, emphasizing Clint’s broad shoulders and arms. The black jacket draped over a perfectly crisp white shirt, accented with jet buttons. He had even taken the time to do up a real bow tie. Clint looked every bit the dashing celluloid spy. Knowing that he easily could work and fight – hell, definitely _had_ done so – in something similar did nothing to make him any less attractive, from Steve’s perspective.

Clint lifted his head, giving Steve a quick once over as he came down the stairs, then a thumbs up. His voice, though, was distinctly mocking when he spoke. “Looking sharp, Smedes.”

“Judgment about my wardrobe from you, mister _it is purple, so I must own it_?” Steve undercut his snark by tugging at the edge of his own collar. He hated collared shirts almost as much as ties and suspenders, but this was the look de rigueur for one of Tony’s _little_ parties.

He couldn’t imagine how Natasha and Pepper survived in those awful sequin and lace nightmares masquerading as evening dresses. Steve knew he was lucky to get away with something that still felt vaguely like a uniform, blue on white with a blue tie. He still hadn’t properly done that up, though, letting it hang loose beneath his collar, which meant that, for once, Steve Rogers looked under-dressed next to Clint Barton.

“You’re not wrong.” Clint tugged at the only hint of purple that had made it into his ensemble that night, fingering the aubergine silk bow tie with a little flip. “I’m honestly surprised it fits, Smedes. That's all.”

“My clothes fit just fine.” He perched on the arm at the other end of the couch, fiddling his own tie into place, and wishing it didn’t feel so much like a fancy noose. He’d always hated these damned things. T-shirts might look kind of stupid on him, but they’d gotten him a fun nickname and the freedom to not feel like his own clothing was out to kill him. At least, not most of the time; this fancy-dress shit got old very quickly.

Clint cuffed him on the shoulder. “Let me rephrase.” With hands clasped under his chin, his roommate leaned over toward him. Clint batted his eyelashes, probably going for besotted, but ending up somewhere in a grey area of creepily-cute. Still, unfortunately, cute though. “Golly, Cap, it’s sure swell to know you didn’t have to be airbrushed into your attire this evening.”

Steve wasn't sure whether or not that deserved a snappy comeback. Clint wasn't making a point he hadn’t heard about his wardrobe from half – alright, _most_ – of the team already. Giving him the last word, though, was a recipe for disaster. Or, at the very least, incessant subsequent taunting. Steve settled for double fuck-you finger guns and a raspberry.

Clint snorted once, twice, then bent over his knees in a fit of chuckles. His words were garbled, choked out between little wheezing snorts. “Shit, Steve, -want- my -bits rubbing - on you.”

Steve blinked. Swallowed, glad that Clint was still looking down. Blinked, again, then cleared his throat to get the last note of a squeak out of his voice. “Pardon?”

“I said, _‘Shit, Steve. No one wants my bad habits rubbing off on you.’”_ Clint wiped at his eyes. He flopped back onto the couch, arms out just enough to keep wrinkles from the sleeves of his suit.

 _Oh, that makes more sense._ Settling next to him, though not _too_ close, Steve glanced down at his watch. The Labour Day gala – Tony called it a _“little party,”_ but it was going to be fucking enormous by anyone else’s standards – was still some time off from officially starting. They weren’t due to arrive for another hour, and that would still put them there early.

Clint hadn’t turned the television on; maybe they were going somewhere else first? Other than hell. Steve was pretty sure that’s where he was headed tonight; Clint in a suit was tempting, even now, but came at the cost of PR meetings, and photo-ops. And, of course, the risk of being asked – or worse, _expected_ – to dance. “So… now what?”

“I thought we’d roll out in about five.” His roommate flipped his watch face around to settle on his wrist. “Get a nice running start.”

“Tony didn’t insist on sending a car?” Not that Steve would have any issue getting to the party on foot; other than the fact that running might leave him too soggy to take the jacket off for the rest of the night.

“Oh, no, he did. Usually I pop a few blocks over and let one of the Starkmobiles take it from there.” He pushed himself up off the couch, twisting at the waist to stretch, then smoothing his jacket back into place. “Keeps eyes off the building. Plus, it gives me a few minutes to warm up and enjoy the evening before I have to go play security.”

“We’re all going to be there, Clint.”

“Not in an official working capacity. Nat and I are attending as extra security, not as guests, and that means perimeter sweeps for me until the bulk of the little civvies head home. _Natalie_ works there, though, so she’ll be doing the crowd checks.” His roommate cast a self-deprecating smile his way, heading for the door. “And I – unlike you, mister miracle of science – am not all that in demand for company by Tony’s herd of science nerds, so nobody will care if I step out for most of the night.”

Steve had to bite his tongue not to overstep and refute him on the spot. He was fairly certain at least some of the nerd herd would demand some of Clint’s time, whether or not they knew who he was.

Standing, he followed Clint, carefully skirting around where Lucky still slept on the floor. The last thing he needed to add to this potential disaster was another round of lint brushing to remove dog hair. “And you’re doing all of that in a suit?”

“Yes, in a suit.” Arms crossing, Clint rolled his eyes, opening the front door. “Why does everyone forget I am a competent spy? Parkour and high fashion are not incompatible. Just gotta watch the shoes.”

“How?” Spy or not, Steve was still having trouble connecting the dots between Clint’s ideas regarding perimeter security – which might include roof-running or sending himself through a window, again – and expensive evening wear. “All offense meant, you’re a disaster on your clothes, Clint. You can’t blame me for being a little surprised.”

“Silk, wool, and linen are a lot sturdier than most people realize.” Rounding on Steve, Clint prodded his chest. “And I may be a disaster, Rogers, but you are a fucking _tragedy_ in that tux right now. I’ll let you slide on not going all out, but what kind of military man doesn't know how to tie a tie?”

He was, unfortunately, right about how bad it looked. Steve planned to take it off as soon it was acceptable to do so; after the first cocktail hour, but probably before they had to talk anyone out of challenging him to shots. “To be fair, I went from basic to that stupid roadshow pretty much instantly, and then out to the front. Never really spent time in the dress uniform.”

“Huh.” Clint tilted his head to the side in question. “But didn't you tie your own ties as a kid? Wasn’t that kind of a thing for school back in the day?”

“I never really wore them. Always took ‘em off as soon as I left the house. They were basically just punch leads.” Being an easy hold and a choking hazard had put neckties firmly on Steve’s list of _truly awful things_ early on.

His roommate only went further with the confused head tilt, doing a fair impression of Lucky as they stepped into the hallway. “You know, some guy would grab my tie and use it as a way to hold on to me while he beat my face in.”

“Riiiight.” Clint gave the door handle a final jiggle to check the lock, then headed for the stairwell to the roof. “Keep forgetting you used to be…” He shrugged. “… you know…”

Oh, yes, Steve knew. He still woke up some days wondering if all of it – the serum, the war, seeing a future he hadn’t ever imagined – was some sort of dying fever dream. Waking up without hurting, or hacking, or having to ask for help to get to the commode was more than he’d dared to hope of back before. Doing that in a world where he could actually _help_ people, even more so. Yes, Steve knew, even if his team had never known him as he was… “Weak?”

“I was going to say _little_. Ya know, as opposed to being the team beef Dorito.” Clint paused on the stair landing to look back at him, mouth pulled to one side. “Huh, I bet you were a cute kid, when you were small.”

“You must like bad odds, Barton, because that is a losing bet.” It was so much easier to be snarky than to think that his roommate had just indirectly called him cute.

“Aww, Smedes, no… I bet you were ‘dorbs.”

Clint would have said that about anyone. He thought pugs were cute, for shit’s sake; Steve couldn’t exactly trust his opinion. “I was really fucking gawky. Nothing but nose and ears and elbows.”

“Oh… Well, at least you grew into them.” Clint grinned, tapping the end of Steve’s nose with his finger. “Boop!”

Steve uncrossed his eyes, brows drawn together. “What?”

“I said, _‘boop!’”_ Clint flicked his nose a second time before turning around and starting back up the stairs.

“Right…” He nodded, trying to shift his attention to something other than the view. His brain was less than helpful, in that regard. “If either of us would have been a cute kid, it would have had to have been you.”

Steve was so glad Clint seemed to take much of what he said jokingly, the other man rolling with it, holding at the level of friendly banter. “Well, of course I was a cute kid. Look at me now.”

Looking was the _easy_ part. “Oh, how the adorable have fallen.”

“Shut up!” Clint shoved at him, even as he held open the door to the roof. “I am damn precious, and you know it.”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah, _precious_ , spelled D-I-S-A-S-T-!” He was cut off as Clint yanked him by the necktie, hard, pulling him so off balance that he only stopped when their foreheads were almost touching.

“Whadya know? Still works.” His roommate smirked, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and reached his other hand up to grasp the silk around Steve’s neck.

At this distance Clint's eyes were almost too bright, grey with flecks of blue or blue with flecks of grey; Steve wasn’t sure, but he’d be happy to keep staring until he was. His nose was slightly crooked down the bridge where, unlike Steve's, science hadn't been used to set the breaks, and there was a little burn scar just visible bisecting his eyebrow that Steve had never noticed at a distance. His roommate had a dusting of freckles across his cheeks, with a few visible dotting his temples as Clint looked down; his gaze was focused, tongue just poking from the side of his mouth in concentration.

He was so close; real and touchable. Steve could feel the barest brush of Clint’s fingers against his neck, hear the shushing slip of the silk in his hand. It would be so easy to bridge the little distance between them and-

“There!” Clint smacked a palm flat across the centre of his chest, stepping back into a graceful twirl and mock salute. “Passably decent double Windsor, Captain Rogers.”

“Uh.” Steve looked down; his tie was a perfect. _Oh_. “Thanks.” He coughed. “Thank you, Clint.”

“So, ready to go meet our ride?” Clint’s smile widened as he walked across the asphalt, nodding towards the side.

It didn't make that much sense to come up here, unless their ride was in the alley. Sure, it would keep whatever late model thing Tony had sent from drawing too much attention, but they could have just gone out the front and around the corner. “Are we taking the fire escape?”

His roommate scoffed, taking a few measured steps back from the edge. “Nope. Race you to Myrtle!” One jaunty wave later, and Clint was running, vaulting the roof-rail to cross the gap to the next building. His voice carried, even as he kept running. “You coming, Smedes?”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Steve thudded against the wall beside him with a sigh, carefully wedging himself between Clint and a vase full of artfully arranged branches. Clint had to give the guy credit for trying to find cover, but open floorplans and Steve’s height made that pretty difficult back at the tower. He gently patted his roommate’s shoulder, steadying himself, fighting to be supportive when Steve slumped into him like Lucky having a mope. “When’s your next photo-op?”

“Thirty-two minutes.” Steve ran a hand over his face, sliding further down the wall. He rested his head against Clint’s elbow, rolling his eyes as he looked ceiling-ward “If one more person tries to pinch my ass…”

“Sounds like you could use a distraction.” Grabbing his arm, Clint hauled Steve upright beside him, dusting imaginary lint from his shoulder before re-straightening his tie. “D’you dance?”

“Badly.”

“That’s a surprise.” He was no slouch, but Steve was in super-human shape; Rogers moved like a gymnast looking for a fight, so it was a surprising admission, coming from him. Especially considering that – probably not coincidentally, since Captain America was making an appearance – the music tonight bent heavily towards jazz and swing-style, complete with a live band.

This should have been right up his roommate’s alley, but Steve only shrugged and frowned up at him. “Well, do you?” He cocked his head to the side, doing nothing to stop Clint from mentally comparing him to Lucky, again. “Real dancing, I mean?”

“In fact, I do. Not too badly, either.” He glanced back out at the dancefloor, scanning the crowd in his periphery. Clint caught a swish of strawberry-blonde hair from the other side of the room as Natalie Rushman stepped up to the bar. “Hang tight, Smedes; enjoy the show.”

Cutting through the crowd was easy enough, and soon he was leaning against the bar top beside her. Clint plucked the stem glass from her hand, knocking the drink back with a grimace – he _hated_ apple pucker – before extending his hand to his partner. “May I have this dance, _Natalie?”_

“Plan on showing off?” Nat’s hand in his, they were already skirting the edge of the floor.

He slipped his other hand around her waist, sliding into the familiar rhythm of dancing with Natasha. “That obvious, huh?”

“Phil might never forgive you; you know that, right?” She winked up at him, eyes laughing. “Especially if he’s not the best man.”

Clint pulled her in tightly as they spun past a particularly drunk couple, skirting around their arhythmic flailing. He tipped his head in a light shrug, rueful as he answered. “Nothing’s happened yet, ‘Tasha. I doubt anything will, either.”

“You can’t see him watching.” Years of ballet training meant Nat had no trouble keeping an eye on his roommate as they twirled. “But he _is_ watching.”

“Because he’s bored, and nobody else here is any good.” It was a flattering thought, but Clint still worried it might be that simple. Steve had very few options. He could watch the two of them, stand awkwardly next to Tony, or try to mingle with the staff and risk another ass-groping. “Cut out next time around?”

“No, but _I’ll_ spin _you_. Since you don’t believe me…” Natasha none-too-gently pinched him through his tux. She kept her head pivoting, regularly looking back to Steve’s corner. “… take a look for yourself.”

Those words and the shift of her hands were all the warning he got; it was only years of having been partners that kept him from flinging her out into the crowd as Natasha took the lead, just as the band switched to an up-tempo lindy. She spun him off, perfectly on beat, and stepped in beside him, leading them to a spot near the edge of the floor that gave him an unobstructed view of Steve’s sulking corner, and the man himself.

Clint felt himself reflexively swallow the moment he caught sight of Steve. _‘Good call, ‘Tasha.’_ She had been right, though Clint didn’t think _watching_ was quite the proper word for what Steve Rogers was doing.

He wasn’t sure how he hadn’t been able to physically _feel_ Steve’s eyes on him before now, nor of quite what to do now that he could. Clint made sure not to stare back – keeping his footwork tight in such a large crowd helped – but it was a task. Steve was literally tracking his every move. The guy wasn’t trying to be subtle about it, either. Chin in one hand and seltzer in the other, gaze focused; Clint felt as if he was some sort of target and Steve was aligning a shot.

It was only when Sam Wilson stepped up behind him, tapping him on the shoulder and actually managing to startle him, that Steve looked away.

Clint felt himself exhale, though he didn’t relax. He let Natasha lead through the end of the song, then spun her back to following position as the tempo slowed. “Tony knows this kind of dancing doesn’t go with a lot of evening wear, right?”

“I doubt he cares.” She looked far too pleased with herself, smiling while still managing to look superior. “But you _saw?”_

“I saw Rogers watching _us_ dance yes, but…” This was it. This was the gambit that was going to make or break the evening. Also, possibly, a few of his ribs, and his jaw, again, if he wasn’t extremely careful. “… even if he _was,_ Wilson’s not hard on the eyes, either.”

Natasha’s words hit at the same time her otherwise delicate looking hand cut into his side, just above his kidney. “Clinton Francis, you are talking like an idiot, don't you even consider that.”

“What?” He met her hissed admonition with a wink, keeping his face all charm and smiles. It wouldn't have any effect on Natasha at this point, but that really was only half of the plan. The second half had finally settled against the wall next to his roommate, glass lifted in a casual salute when they locked eyes above Nat’s head. Perfect.

His partner had, as a matter of course, never bought his bullshit once she learned to recognize it. “Playing off Sam to make Steve jealous. Don't.”

“I would never.” Mock indignation didn't suit him, he knew, but it was fun to rile her up just a little; something to keep his mind occupied as they spun around the floor. He and Nat had been dancing partners for so many years that keeping pace with her was simple enough. Even if there were other things, or other people, occupying most of his thoughts tonight.

It was nerve-wracking, but he had to trust Sam to come through with his end of the plan. Clint might not have a chance – it hadn’t happened yet, and they’d been living together seven months – but he could help Falcon out. The guy needed all the assistance he could get. Clint would know; he was pretty sure Natasha had been a credit to her codename with the last guy she'd dated.

Clint smiled down at her while they swayed, watching the suspicion fill her eyes as they circled back to where his wall-flower roommate had started setting down roots.

“If you even consider-” He cut off her words, having already brought them back around to where the two men stood, spinning that momentum down and all but throwing her into Steve’s arms as he stepped up to Sam.

“Falcon! Hey!” Clint swept the other man into a tight hug, picking Sam up slightly off the ground and squeezing at the end. If Natasha had been able to glare daggers like she threw them, he'd be dead ten times over already. “Missed you, BirdBro.”

“Missed you, too, man.” Even if they were playing it up for an audience, he couldn’t deny that Falcon gave good hugs. Sam clapped him on the back as they pulled apart, grin wide. “Airspace isn’t the same without an extra set of eyes. I like knowing I've got somebody to watch my back…”

“Side!” They half-shouted in unison, bumping fists.

“So,” The other two could jump into the conversation if they wanted. He wasn’t going to stop them, any more than he was going to die from the fatal side-eye Nat was sending his way. Clint kept his attention purposely focused on Sam. “How was the trip up?”

“Slow. Traffic cone season.”

“Thought that was year-round on the beltway?” He pulled Sam in close against his side, arm wrapped around the other man’s shoulder, turning them towards the bar. “But, hey, lemme get us drinks before Steve has to go play with the paparazzi, again. Nat, you want anything?”

“Double.” Her tone would have made a smarter man wince, but he was long-since immune. “Be quick about it, Clint.”

“Steve? More than seltzer?”

Only now did Steve seem to realize that he still had a light hold on Natasha. He let her go, nodding slowly. “I think Thor left some of that Asgardian stuff, but, um… just a little.”

He gave his roommate a light pat on the shoulder, letting his hand rest a moment and squeeze. “You got it, buddy.” Clint hooked his arm through Sam’s, dragging him off to the bar. He didn’t look back, but the man on his arm did.

Sam whistled softly through his teeth, head shaking as he turned back to face where they were going. “I hope you know what you’re doing, man. I don’t wanna spend the holiday dead.”

Clint nodded, giving Sam’s arm a light pat. “Don’t worry: She’ll kill me first.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

He’d finished his third sweep – _“Nothing to report except too many of your employees sucking face in the stairwells, Stark.”_ – and brought back a round to the corner that had effectively become theirs as the night progressed. Skirting the edge of the push of bodies was more difficult with five drinks, especially when only one was in a stem glass, but Clint managed.

Sam and Nat were next to each other, perched on the sill of the window. Steve had drifted back at some point, having finished whatever PR he’d been needed for. He had settled into the only real chair with a small herd of rocks glasses forming a neat triangle in front of him. Clint counted five so far, which meant it had either been a very _good_ night, or a very, very _bad_ one. Asgardian brandy might not get Steve drunk – they still hadn’t found anything that could quite do that without burning a hole in his mouth – but it would get him tipsy, and sometimes a little punchy, closer to the back alley scrapper he’d been in his youth. _Best be careful, then._

“Having fun?” Clint winked at Sam, avoiding Steve’s eye line. _Damn_ , was he ever nervous, even though he had backup; Sam would have his six, at least for long enough to get away from the main party and not cause some kind of scene. He handed their respective drinks off to Sam and Nat, setting Steve’s down at the edge of his little cluster of other glasses. Clint was only responsible for two, now three, of them; he wasn’t sure when Steve had gotten the rest.

Sliding past Steve’s chair, Clint wedged himself into a lean beside Sam, forcing the other man to scoot in closer to Natasha. Even after downing his first shot, he couldn’t stop the wriggling nervousness creeping up in his gut, feet tapping double time as he tipped his head back to admire the ceiling.

“You doing shots of espresso, Barton?” Sam’s elbow caught him in the ribs. “You look jittery.”

“Just running out of stuff to do.” He tilted, leaning into Sam, cheek resting atop the other man’s shoulder. “Spent the last hour clearing the stairs of handsy nerds and scaring away the paparazzi drones with arrows. I’m bor-ed.”

“Well, stop acting like I'm supposed to do something about it.” Wilson gave another prod with his elbow, followed by a shove hard enough to right him. Still, Falcon offered a friendly smile, and Clint saw Sam’s eyes flick momentarily over Clint’s shoulder, back toward Steve, before that smile widened.

His own answering grin was only slightly tempered as Natasha stood up fully, glaring at him above Sam’s head, voice as frosty as her glass. “Yes, Clint. Please. Stop.”

If this didn't work out, he was gonna be down a friend and possibly a few fingers by tomorrow. Still, he had a feeling. This last little push just might do it. He winked at Sam, hip-bumping him. If there was just a little more ass than hip, well, maybe that was alright. Just this once. “Well, twinkle toes, maybe you can. Nat’s feet are probably hurting, but we could always hit the dancefloor, again, huh? Tear it up together for a while?”

Sam pressed his lips together, face teetering on the edge of laughter, and Clint used every ounce of restraint he possessed not to turn around and get a glimpse of his roommate. Only just composed, Sam winked back. “I think I need another bourbon or two in me before I'm ready for any more of _that_ , HawkBirb."

Yes! There was the signal. Clint sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Sam Wilson could get such a good read on Steve. It had saved him from having to check on whether Steve was noticing his actions. As a bonus, keeping a running conversation with Sam between sweeps had made it so much easier to make it look like Clint was flirting with him. And with Sam's eyes on Steve, no one had been the wiser. Mission accomplished.

He downed his last shot – double, this time because fuck if he didn’t need it – and tugged at Sam's sleeve with a pout, swaying side to side. “Aww, RedBirb, c’mon… No one else is gonna…”

Clint heard another glass clink down behind him; a second later, a warm hand settled heavily on his shoulder. “I’ll dance with you, Clint. That way Sam and Natasha can finish their drinks.”

 _Oh, shit_. This was happening. Steve Rogers – handsome, competent, adorable asshole that he was – had just asked him to dance. Yes, that had been part of the plan, but not one he’d thought of in anything beyond the abstract. And not one that involved the other man all but glaring as he’d asked. “Steve, you said you don't like to dance.”

“I don't _mind.”_ Steve had his hands already shoved into his pockets as he shrugged, unbuttoned jacket riding up and then slipping open. He looked more confused than anything, gaze sliding ever so slowly towards the floor “I mean, I like it… I'm just not very good.”

“No worries.” He reached for Steve’s arm, trying to project a confidence he definitely didn’t feel at the moment. “It’s not that hard.”

Clint had grasped Steve’s hand dozens of times, usually to stop one of them falling off of something, or pulling each other up off the mat. They shook hands pretty regularly, too, but… It was only now that Clint realized; this was the first time he’d actually _held_ Steve’s hand. It was hard not to fixate on the warmth, the subtle differences in where Steve had callouses. He didn’t want to let go, but he couldn’t cause a scene.

Clint held on long enough to slip Steve’s left arm over his right. _Good fit._ He tipped his head toward the dancefloor. “I'll lead.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

The Asgardian buzz had lasted _just_ long enough for them to get out onto the floor, but not been so strong that Steve hadn’t realized this was a terrible idea right from the start. He'd seen his roommate dance on and off throughout the night, watching the other man expertly circling the floor, with Nat or Sam, or, once, with a giggling Pepper; always controlled and graceful.

Steve couldn’t even compare.

Not that he was exactly clumsy, per se. Nor was he unused to coordinating his movements based on someone else’s; that was half of what he did in the field. It was more that moving _around_ someone was vastly different from moving _with_ them.

Especially when that someone was Clint Barton. Who, despite tripping on the same step nearly every morning, was an excellent dancer. Who, even – or maybe _especially_ – after working for hours, smelled very nice up close. Who had somehow managed to keep them moving perfectly around the dancefloor, even as Steve’s foot landed heavily on his own. For the third time.

Clint grinned through his wince, steering them closer to the edge of the crowded floor. “For once, I'm not the one breaking my own bones.”

“I'm trying.” Steve sputtered, feeling like his tongue was too big to fit in his mouth, wishing he could keep himself from talking, yet failing even at that. “I mean, no, I'm not trying to crush your toes, it’s just happening. I mean, I'm trying to _not_ -”

“Naw, it’s good, Steve.” His roommate laughed, head shaking, eyes bright. “I get it, I get it. Relax. Seriously, I feel like I’m trying to lead a statue.”

The hand on his back rubbed up along his spine, then traced the same path downward, probably trying to soothe, but only making Steve more aware of just how close they were, how easy it was to slot in against the man leading him across the floor. They fit well like this; Clint’s left hand grasping his, his right hand at the back of Steve’s waist. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend Clint was holding him. Of course, that thought led to its own problems.

Steve looked down; ostensibly watching his footwork, actually checking the front of his pants, while also stifling the giddy, guilty smile pulling at the corner of his lips. There was nothing he could do about the blushing, except try it blame it on too many drinks and hope the shirt collar hid the worst of it. The tactic seemed to be working, at least until Clint leaned down, somehow managing to duck his head into Steve’s line of vision while still keeping them moving.

“Aw, Smedes, no… Hey, it’s alright.” He winked, dropping his volume in a way that did nothing to help Steve’s embarrassment, or lessen Clint’s attractiveness, in this situation. “I have a whole other foot of toes you can crush.”

That sounded so much like an invitation; it hurt, how much Steve wished that it was. He stepped back, widening the distance between them as he spoke. “I think maybe we should stop before…” _Before I do something ridiculous._

Because his little fantasy was ridiculous, bordering on absurd. The two of them were friends, dancing in a room literally filled with people, some of whom were members of the press, in the middle of Stark Tower. Steve Rogers could not make a scene, not here, not now, not even if the reason he wanted to was already right here in his arms.

“We should stop before it gets to that point.” He nodded, more to himself than Clint, plastering on his best meet-the-press smile. “Roof running’s gonna be a challenge if you’re down _both_ feet, and I don’t want to keep injuring a… a teammate.” The last word dropped like a stone between them, falling sour and flat out of Steve’s mouth.

“Yeah, I guess it would.” Clint’s shoulder shifted beneath his hand as he turned, leading them back to the edge of the room. “Plus, I’ve got one more sweep now that it’s after last call, anyway.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

By the time they got back to what had become their corner, Sam and Natasha had already gone. Clint couldn’t see any obvious signs of a struggle – nothing upended, no blood or drag marks, no missing furniture, although he did think he could see a reddish-blonde wig tucked behind one of the pot plants – so Sam had probably left willingly.

Neither of them had signalled him, either, when he’d been dancing with Steve. Sam had given him a beaming thumbs up during one brief moment when Natasha and Pepper were chatting, but that had been the last he’d seen of the man. Things were looking up for those two, maybe, at least.

Of course, they weren’t looking too badly for him either, all things considered. Steve Rogers had no poker face. He wore his emotions fairly openly – if confusedly – and they had been on full, high definition, up-close display for Clint for the last three hours.

If the looks he’d gotten when he and Natasha were dancing had been noticeable, the ones Steve had leveled his way when he whisked Sam onto the floor had been downright predatory. It was damn flattering, especially coming from a guy like Steve, and Clint hadn't been on the receiving end of that sort of attention in longer than he was want to admit. At least, not from someone from whom he wanted attention, and who wasn't also a target or mark for work. He owed Sam, and Nat, big time; he wasn’t sure what, but definitely something beyond buttermilk. Clint Barton hadn’t felt quite this good in far too long, and he was calling on all his years of covert training to tamp down the idiot smile he could feel pulling at his face.

When he finished his last round of checks, and after rolling his eyes at just _where_ some of Tony’s employees had wandered off to unattended, he was still carrying that little swell of bliss. Steve, on the other hand, looked crestfallen, almost guilty, as he slumped back into the wall, idly tweaking the leaves of the same ficus whose pot had acquired a lovely headful of strawberry-blonde hair during the evening.

Clint tipped his head sideways into Steve’s line of sight, grinning. “Ready to roll?”

“Yeah, listen, about tonight-”

“Later, I want to get out of here before someone _else_ tries necking on the helipad. Seriously, I can’t figure out how they even _get_ up there… ” Having cut Steve off, he tucked the other man’s arm around his own, leading them both over to the elevator, managing to skirt past Tony and Pepper without the pre-requisite round of goodbyes. He scooted his roommate into the lift, slammed the door-close button, and slumped back into the wall of the car. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah.”

“Have fun dancing?”

“Yes, except for the whole stepping on your foot thing, I’m so sor-”

Clint held up his hand, head shaking. Not that he wouldn’t accept Steve’s apology – he was pretty sure at least two of his toes actually _were_ broken – but that didn’t matter right now. “Steve, really, it’s fine. I’m just glad you enjoyed yourself, especially since you had to do that dog and pony show for the SI crowd. That’s all.”

“Yeah, but…” Steve toed the floor of the car with one polished shoe “… I ruined your night.”

“What, stepping on me feet? Please; I’m not bleeding or concussed, and I didn’t have to hide any bodies. Tonight went _way_ better than the last time I wore this tux.”

“No, I mean… I just feel bad about… ya know.” His roommate’s voice dropped to such a low whisper that, had he not had some practice reading lips, Clint might have entirely missed Steve’s words. “I shouldn’t have cock-blocked you like that.”

He had spent enough time in the present that Clint wasn’t surprised that he knew the phrase, but it was still a shock to hear those words coming out of Steve Rogers’ mouth. “And when exactly did you-” Clint snickered; it was still too funny. “When did you _cock-block_ me, Steve?”

“Uh…” It was amazing how adorable someone so big and imposing could look when he blinked like that. “With Sam?”

Clint Barton wanted to smirk. He wanted to grin. He wanted to punch his fist up in the air and do a little shimmy, even if JARVIS probably _was_ watching this time, because his plan had _worked_. Steve hadn’t been bored, he hadn’t asked to dance to be a good friend; he had been _trying_ to keep Clint’s attention off of Sam. And since he would be among the first to admit that Sam was a reliable, upstanding guy, since Sam and Clint _and Steve_ were already friends and colleagues, it hadn’t been because Steve didn’t trust the man. Steve Rogers had been trying to get Clint’s attention because he _wanted it,_ and that was pretty much the highest compliment Clint Barton could have gotten.

Ever.

He let a little of that laughter bubble up – even _he_ couldn’t hold it all in – and shook his head, patting Steve’s shoulder. “Okay, but, Steve, you totally didn’t. Sam is a great guy, but I am ill-equipped to his tastes, if you catch my meaning, and there is no _way_ I would date the man.”

Steve blinked, owl-eyed, jaw working slowly a moment before he found his voice. “Wait. What? But- But you were-”

“Yeah, I know. That was the plan all along, but you had to work, and things got rushed when you got back, so…” Paltering wasn’t lying. All of that was true, though he wouldn’t have told Steve anything about it, even if he’d never left.

For his part, Steve seemed to be about two beats behind on their conversation, still looking perplexed even as the elevator doors dinged open on the main floor. “But after your last mission? I thought I interrupted you guys…”

“Nope!” Hooking their arms together, again, he walked them across the lobby to wait for one of the driverless cars to come around. “I just agreed to help him out with this, and he got a little _over-enthused._ Like I said, it’s not that Sam isn’t a great guy, but what we've got going is just a rad bromance.”

“But you asked him to dance all _night!”_ Despite his continued confusion, Steve had the presence of mind to notice the car pull around and start walking them out to meet it.

Clint let him lead, still feeling rather pleased about this whole little mission. “Yeah, figured I’d show him off a bit, make him _look_ uncomfortable, and then he’d get his chance when Nat swooped in to save him from me. To be honest, you helped sell it, so I kinda owe you one.”

“So you’re not…” His roommate paused, interrupted as he ducked into the back of the cab. “You’re _not_ together?”

“Nope. This bird’s flying solo. Still one-hundred percent single.” Though, hopefully, not for too much longer, given the way tonight had gone. Clint flopped down onto the bench seat beside him, sprawling over it until their knees touched. “But, trust me, Smedes, you’ll be the first – okay, after Nat, _second_ – person to know when I’m not… Maybe the first, though.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

They’d spent the rest of the ride back in relative silence, broken only by Clint happily humming to himself until the cab dropped them off a block from the apartment. He’d asked to take the first shower, and Steve had obliged, giving Clint the perfect view when Steve had tried to sneak back – towel around his waist and suit-pants over his arm – to his own room.

The lights were off, Lucky curled up at the foot of his bed like usual, so his roommate probably thought he was already tucked in. Especially given that Steve had spent the last thirty seconds just staring down at him. “Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?” He started, half-in half-through the bathroom doorway, turning to look up at Clint’s face.

“Thanks, again, for dancing with me. You’re a good friend.”

“Of course.” There was just enough of a glow coming from the low bathroom light behind Steve that Clint could make out the blush darkening his ears. “It was no problem, but, like I said, I’m sorry about your foot.”

“That’s okay.” He sat up in bed, letting the blankets puddle around his waist; Steve didn’t need to know he had boxers on under the covers. Clint let his voice brush the edge of teasing, just to see what it would do. “I’m sure you’ll make it up to me later. Goodnight, Steve.”

He laid back down, leaving the sheet and comforter where they were, and closed his eyes. It was another half-minute until he heard a barely voiced _“Goodnight”_ and the soft click of the light switch; until he heard Steve’s door close, then something thunk into it that sounded suspiciously like a fist. Or maybe a forehead. He couldn’t be sure.

Clint slipped off his aids and tucked in properly, tugging the blankets up to his chin, smiling to himself in the darkness of his bedroom. It was the happiest of thoughts, to think that _he_ had gotten Steve so flustered. He knew he ought to just say something to the other man directly, but he wouldn’t; not this time.

Firstly, it still didn’t quite seem real. As much as Clint had enjoyed riling Steve up this evening, it served as a single data point; he needed to know whether this was something that went beyond dancing and nice clothes. He looked damn good in a tuxedo, but he spent ninety-five percent of his time in sweats or tactical gear, quite often while bleeding.

Secondly, even if there might _be_ something between them, he was technically still Steve’s landlord. He literally stood – or at least slept – between the other man and access to food and the bathroom, for fuck’s sake. Clint could ask, but it was probably better to let things go at Steve’s pace.

Lastly, and, oddly, the thing that made him want to wait the most was Steve’s interest, itself. Clint Barton was not used to being _the guy being chased._ He could count the number of times someone had asked _him_ out – not the other way around – on one hand with three fingers broken, and another one cut off; he wasn’t even sure that lone finger counted, since that had been when he was a teenager and a terrible, stupid experience.

There was a thrill, a bright, giddy charge up his spine at the thought of someone – anyone – putting in the time and effort to get his attention. Wanting to look at, let alone _be with,_ him.

Yes, Steve was very _bad_ at it, but even that was sort of endearing. The man had gotten as drunk as he could and asked Clint to dance earlier. How romantically cliché was _that?_ Watching Steve try, even though he’d failed miserably, had made Clint feel worth something in a way he wasn’t sure he ever had.

If Steve really was interested in him, he was more than willing to wait him out, to let Steve Rogers come to him. He'd seen the man run headlong into insurmountable, impossible, and idiotic situations enough times to know: Steve would do it when he was ready, if Clint was who he wanted.

And of course, there was still the very loud voice in the back of his brain screaming doubts that this meant anything to Steve; that there was no way he could want Clint in any sense at all, when the guy could have pretty much anyone with one of those little smiles of his. Clint Barton had been shot down too many times over the years; sometimes quite _literally_. That kind of bravado laden dance was a younger man’s game. He was tired of running, true, but Steve was damn good at it; let _him_ do the chasing.

Clint would wait. He would enjoy their little domestic arrangement and his own fantasies until Steve either admitted there was something between them or decided he was ready to move on. And he wouldn't push…

_… much._


	8. Buttermilk - Free Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not originally part of the bingo challenge, but I realized I never explained how _buttermilk_ wasn't enough repayment from the last chapter, and that I had a free space on the bingo card.

**HawkGuy**  
[ _So, how was last night?_ ]

 **NerdBird**  
[ _You are not asking me that this morning._ ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _Well I can't ask Natasha. Strike Team Delta rule number four._ ]  
[ _No asking Natasha about her love life._ ]

 **NerdBird**  
[ _Addendum 4.1: No asking Sam, either._ ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _Actually, 4.1 is already a thing, and you passed._ ]

 **NerdBird**  
[ _EXPLAIN._ ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _If I find any of Nat's partners talking about their bedroom antics, I'm allowed to shoot them._ ]

 **NerdBird**  
[ _Allowed? You'd kill them?_ ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _No._ ]  
[ _Just hobble them so that Nat can take them apart slowly._ ]  
[ _I meant it about the body of the last one._ ]  
[ _NO IDEA._ ]  
[ _No worries, BirdBro. You live to fly another day._ ]

 **NerdBird**  
[ _What about you?_ ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _Oh, I am an open book._ ]

 **NerdBird**  
[ _So..?_ ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _Open, but blank._ ]  
[ _He'll figure it out._ ]

 **NerdBird**  
[ _You still believe that?_ ]  
[ _I could drop a hint._ ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _Rule 7.3. No helping Clint flirt unless he asks._ ]  
[ _I asked for the party, but not anything else._ ]

 **NerdBird**  
[ _Why is THAT a rule?_ ]

**HawkGuy**  
[ _Phil likes to be helpful. He's not good at it._ ]

[ _I, however, am an excellent wingman._ ]  
[ _I snuck by and put buttermilk in Nat's fridges yesterday._ ]  
[ _Go make her pancakes._ ]

 **NerdBird**  
[ _You don't know where we are._ ]  
[ _?_ ]  
[ _Please tell me you didn’t track us._ ]  
[ _NO CAMERAS BARTON!!!_ ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _Nat's fridges***_ ]  
[ _ALL of them._ ]  
[ _Chill the fuck out._ ]  
[ _And you’re welcome._ ]  
[ ( ᴖ ᴗ ᴖ) ]

[ _The appropriate response is thank you._ ]  
[ ( o ᴗ o) ]

[ _I’ll just assume you’re cooking, then._ ]


	9. Flirting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Clint are bad at many things; chief among these are observation and subtlety.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

“Free tickets, though, Steve.” Clint whined and leaned forward over the back of the couch, waving said tickets in front of his face. “I thought you’d _like_ it…”

As cliché as it might sound, he was right. Steve had always liked baseball. It was an easy way to spend an afternoon, something to put on in the background to listen to while he was laid up in bed before, or painting or training now. He still enjoyed the sport, even if he didn't get to that many games just for fun anymore. “Clint, I go to games all the time.”

“To _work_.” Sighing, his roommate vaulted the back of the couch beside him, squeaking down onto the middle cushion and leaning into his shoulder. “This isn’t _Captain America throws the first pitch._ This is for _fun.”_

Steve shook his head.

After the muddled disaster of the party, he’d decided to stay around the apartment. Just to keep an eye on Clint’s injuries, of course. The fact that Clint had declared he was single the Sunday previous, putting Steve so high on hope that he hadn’t slept the night after the party, had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with that decision. Just like it hadn’t made his interactions with Clint any more nerve-wracking, especially when his roommate was hooking his arm around Steve’s shoulder in a friendly – just _friendly_ – half-hug.

“C’mon, Smedes? You, me, nosebleed seats, hotdogs and a couple beers? We can even wear that silly hat and sunglasses disguise you like so much.” Clint squeezed him tightly before releasing him with a pat. He leaned back onto his end of the couch, feet swinging up onto Steve’s leg. “Hell, we’ve got three weeks. Almost four! Grow out the beard.”

Clint patted the back cushion, and Lucky scrambled up onto the sofa to join them with a snuffle.

Confused, Steve turned as he spoke, “You’ve never seen me with a beard…” trailing off a little at the end, too busy appreciating the comforting normality of the moment.

Clint had stretched out over two of the three cushions, socked feet crossed at the ankle, resting in Steve’s lap. Lucky had, in turn, stretched over Clint, fluffy tail swishing against Steve’s side, one leg twitching as Clint petted him. Their coffee mugs sat, side-by-side, on the table; Clint’s black, Steve’s so full of cream and sugar that it could only charitably be _called_ coffee at the moment. It didn’t just feel homey; it felt like _home_.

“Sure, I have.” Clint stretched, lifting the bottom hem of his t-shirt to show the barest line of skin as he spoke.

Despite having all but seen Clint _nude_ , there was something about the teasing strip of tanned skin at the edge of Clint’s t-shirt that promptly overloaded the last little cogent corner of Steve’s mind. He nearly forgot to respond to Clint’s words, blinking muzzily. “When?”

Clint uncrossed his ankles, re-crossing them in the opposite direction, heels kneading down into Steve’s thigh. “Back in April? You got stuck out in Vermont – jealous, by the way, ‘cause I bet the fishing was amazing – and you did the whole rugged back-woodsman thing.”

“Rugged?” Despite all of his survival training and experience, Steve was still a city-boy at heart. He'd felt more like an unkempt squatter than any sort of woodsman, outside of literally having to chop trees to burn for boiling his water. He remembered that operation, but Steve hadn’t exactly _enjoyed_ it; he certainly hadn’t felt _attractive_ afterwards. “I looked like a vagrant, Clint.”

“No way! Sexy cabin beard and plaid? That was a hot look on you.” Clint winked from the other end of the couch. “Dunno how you did it so fast, but I bet you can get close to that by the twenty-ninth, right?”

With that none-too-subtle compliment – Clint thought his beard was _sexy?!_ – running on a loop through his brain, Steve tripped over his tongue, sputtering out the first words that came to mind. “I don’t know that I want to stop shaving, though.”

“Come on…” Clint leaned over the dog, lower lip pressing down and out, and tapped his left foot against Steve’s abs while tugging at his sleeve. “You promised you’d pay me back for the broken toes, Smedes. Please?”

Steve could tell Clint was pressing down a smile, faking that pout, but the look and needy tone still hit him hard. He _had_ promised to make up for injuring his roommate, and this definitely wasn’t a bad opportunity to do so. If it meant dealing with face itch and napkin fuzz for a few weeks, Steve could do that, easily, for Clint. Well, for Clint’s toes. To make up for smashing them.

And a baseball game did sound like kind of a fun plan for just the two of them. Away from work, out together, in public. Just the two of them. Just a normal guys’ hangout date. Day. Hangout _day_. “Yeah, alright. But only until the game.”

“Awesome!” The bright smile on Clint’s face erased all of Steve’s cares just in time for his roommate’s words to send him into another terrifying spiral. “It’s a date, Smedes.”

“Sure.” _Shit._

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Clint glared down at his watch where it vibrated against his wrist, letting him know it was _05:15_. _Fucking perfect._ Clint fought the urge to smash his face back into the pillow.

He had set the silent alarm himself – all part of the plan – but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Just like Clint didn’t have to like being on the wrong side of five am; the waking up side, that was. However, this mission relied on being awake when Steve was, and _that_ was o-five-hundred, at the latest. That meant he needed to be awake soon after. Using every bit of focus he had, Clint pushed himself up off the bed, slipping his aids into place.

Clint paced in circles around the room a few times, laid back in the bed, rolled and flopped for effect. He got up and padded into the bathroom, then shuffled back to the bed, then got up, again. Clint looked at his clock. _05:42_. That ought to be enough time; he had to make this look believable.

He wiggled his toes bare on the floor. It had been two weeks since Steve broke them. They were almost healed – he only had to tape the one – but Clint was no closer to getting Steve to notice his noticing. Maybe it was because he was keeping it low-key? Subtle.

Well, as subtle as he felt like being. Clint tugged off his shirt, tossing it into the bathroom hamper before padding silently to bedroom door, peering down the stairs. He could see Steve, already awake, in the kitchen.

His roommate was sitting at the dining table, sipping his coffee while reading from his tablet. Lucky was stretched out under his chair, head tipped back in anticipation of pets, tail brushing in slow lines across the linoleum. Steve chuckled, muttering to himself, _“Damnit, Tony, you would,”_ which probably meant he’d hit a news article about their last mission. He reached down, giving Lucky’s ear a scratch, then went back to his coffee. Steve looked comfortable, at ease in his apartment. _Their_ apartment. Soon. Maybe.

Clint shook his head. Staring like he had been was the opposite of subtle, but at least some of his more stealth-related subtlety was working; Steve didn’t even look up from his tablet as Clint came down. “Morning, Sunshine.”

“What are you doing up?!” Steve jumped, head whipping around to look at him, eyes wide and a little startled.

 _Watching you_. “Getting coffee.” Clint opened the cabinet, reaching for his usual purple mug that he just _happened_ to have put up on the highest shelf the night before, forcing him to stretch up on his toes. He filled it, turning back to look at Steve as he slumped to lean against the counter. “Ya know, that thing people do?”

Steve blinked, still wearing that deer in the headlights expression. “It's not even six in the morning, Clint.”

“Yeah. And I didn't get enough sleep and am now awake. Hence the need for ‘ffeine.” The act was easier to sell because it was mostly true. After the failure – at least where he and Steve were concerned – of Operation Wing-man, Clint had realized that Steve was sort of dense about his hints. He wasn’t going to come out and _say_ anything, not just yet, but maybe he could tip the odds further in his favour? Just a tad.

“We can’t all be super alert automatically.” Clint lifted the coffee, sighing with genuine relief once he took a sip. He was absolutely exhausted, and nervous to boot. The line between flirting and being obnoxious was never one he’d been too good at navigating, but, if Steve really _did_ have more than a passing interest in him, maybe this would work out. “Hey, Smedes, can I ask a favour?”

“Sure?” Steve nodded, eyes on his tablet, having resumed his scrolling.

“So I don't usually catch sunrise unless it’s after an op, right?” This was it. Not a make or break moment, but definitely a hard nudge. Clint finished his coffee. He set the mug on the counter behind him, hands braced on the edge. “Mind if I watch it from your room?”

It wasn’t the shitty light from the overhead fixture that leant Steve’s cheeks that pale cast. Clint knew the picture he was presenting – sleepy, rumpled, and shirtless – and _he_ knew that _Steve_ knew Clint wouldn’t be perching on the stool Steve sat on to paint. He’d be planting himself dead centre in the middle of the bed. _Steve’s_ bed. Leaving room for a _friend_ , of course.

Clint pressed down a smirk, stepping in close, hand gently rubbing Steve’s shoulder. “Smedes? That cool with you?”

“Yeah, fine!” The other man brought his mug up so quickly that it clicked his teeth. Steve hissed a bubble into his coffee, but kept the mug up in front of his mouth, hiding behind it as he spoke. “Tha’sh faing.”

“Great. See you up there.” Clint made a point of not looking back, refilling his mug. Lucky trotted over for a few pets and some scraps, and if he just _happened_ to bend at the waist instead of crouching in a clingy pair of lounge pants to pet the dog? Well, judging by the soft sputtering cough, someone was getting an eyeful. Satisfied, Clint grabbed his mug and hiked back up the stairs.

He pulled an armful of pillows from his own bed and built a little nest – which he had liked to do even before all the bird-brain jokes, thanks much – in the centre of his roommate’s bed. Clint wrapped Steve’s afghan around his shoulders, settling into a lean in the corner, bracketed by the headboard and the wall.

The dog announced Steve’s impending arrival, bounding into the room just about the time the other man hit the squeaky fifth stair. Almost like Clint had planned it, Lucky sprawled across the foot of the bed, leaving only the space between them to sit on as Steve stepped into the room. Clint patted the empty section of mattress beside him with a smile. “Sunrise buddies?”

He saw Steve glance briefly at the stool beside his easel, setting his coffee mug atop it before nodding. “Sure. Sunrise buddies.” Steve pushed some of the pillows back, settling in next to Clint as he sat on top of the covers.

Clint took a sip from his own coffee. He lifted the edge of the purloined afghan and prodded Steve’s shoulder. “Don’t you wanna get under the blanket?”

“I’m fine.” Steve shook his head, eyes focused on the still dark window. “I tend to run hot, Clint.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s perfect; I’m freezing.” Again, Clint was grateful to be able to fudge his way around the full truth. The apartment wasn’t all that cold, but Steve’s tiny corner room had always been the coolest space in it, and Clint wasn’t wearing a shirt. He wasn’t _actually_ freezing – he would warm up soon enough beneath the afghan, anyway – but Clint _was_ a little bit cold. Since Steve always griped about being too hot _anyway_ , asking to borrow some of his warmth wouldn’t seem all that out of line.

“C’mere.” Clint threw the blanket around Steve’s shoulders, wrapped his arm around the other man’s waist, and pulled Steve tight against his side, head resting on his roommate’s shoulder. “Never realized how draughty this room was. Sorry about that, Smedes.”

“It’s, uh… I don’t really have a problem with it.” Clint could feel the shift of Steve’s body against his, the slight fidgeting, muscles beneath his cheek tensing as they might before a fight. Even as he leaned back into a slump, taking Clint with him, Steve was hardly relaxed. “Yeah, it’s fine. Kinda nice, actually. Like I said-”

“Yeah, yeah I know, Steve: You’re hot.” Clint smiled to himself as he felt a clear hitch in Steve’s breathing at his purposeful misquote. He pulled away just long enough to balance his coffee cup on the edge of Steve’s bookshelf before curling back in against his roommate – hopefully not _just_ roommate for too much longer – tucking up under Steve’s arm and pulling the blanket over his other side. _Mmm…_ Steve’s chest was surprisingly comfy under all that beef…

•°☆°•

Clint slid back into wakefulness, mercifully staying still automatically after so many years of infiltration work. The plan had _not_ involved falling asleep on Steve for real, but… _Mmmf!_ Clint couldn’t only blame himself. It was more than partly his roommate’s fault.

Steve was warm, and solid, and he smelled _good_. Slightly musky – he must not have showered since the night before – but in a way that Clint found quite appetizing. Clint snuggled closer, eyes still closed as he pressed his nose into Steve's t-shirt. The hand around his back lifted to pet through his hair, and all of his effort had to go into fighting that groan. Damn, but no one had played with Clint’s hair like that in ages.

He would have liked to stay like this for the rest of the morning, but Clint needed to get up and work – the elevator was acting up, again – and that meant he really ought to be getting off of Steve. _Getting off with, though…_ Yeah, hopefully at some point, but not right now.

Clint took a deep breath and stretched, looking muzzily up at Steve, face as apologetic as he could keep it. “Crap… Sorry, Smedes.” The yawn that cracked his jaw was real; it was _still_ too damn early. Clint really was ready to crawl right back into bed. “Didn't mean to fall asleep on ya.”

Steve scrunched his face, shrugging by way of an answer as his ears went a bit pink. He looked down at his lap. “It… It wasn’t a problem.”

“Thanks.” Clint yawned, again, sitting up more fully. Steve’s arm slid off his shoulder, but stayed behind him, hand resting on the mattress beside his hip. Clint took note, but didn’t dwell on it, still trying to judge how long he’d been asleep. Daylight was streaming in through the windows, the sun already high enough that it wasn’t shining directly in through the glass to blind them. _Crap_. He’d been out at least an hour or two, then. “Aww… sunrise, no… I missed it.”

Reaching for his coffee – stone cold, but he would take it – Clint took a few slow sips, rolling the soreness out of his neck. His roommate was still silent, head down. Clint patted his knee as he asked, “Was is pretty, Steve?”

“Huh?” Steve’s whole body tensed at his touch; he seemed about half a beat behind Clint’s part of the conversation. Steve blinked back at him, bright blue eyes not quite focused. “Pardon?”

“The sunrise?” Clint rubbed Steve’s leg and shifted to fully face him. “Was it pretty?”

“Yeah… Gorgeous.” His roommate literally shook off the last of his daze, carding his fingers through his hair before it settled back into his face. Steve cleared his throat and turned away from Clint to face the window. “It was, uh… It was really beautiful. Probably because it’s so humid, still. Lots of, um… Lots of purple and red.”

“Purple in the morning? Sounds pretty gorgeous, alright.” Clint chugged down the last of his coffee to stop himself from grinning. Now that he was learning what to look for, he could just enjoy the unvoiced compliment his roommate’s nervousness conveyed. Steve was so damn _cute_ when he was flustered, too!

Between his reaction downstairs, and the one he was still having, Clint could safely say that, at a minimum, Steve thought he was _physically_ attractive. He mentally ticked off that box in his brain as he stood up. “Damn. Maybe next time, huh?”

Steve nodded back silently, still none-too-subtly avoiding looking right at him.

Clint wrapped his half of the afghan back around Steve’s front, tucking him in, “There you go,” and glancing over at the clock. It was even later than he’d thought; Steve had let him sleep nearly _three hours_.

A brief pang of regret zipped through him – he had spent three hours _in bed_ with his adorably beefy roommate, and he’d been _asleep_ , damnit! – but that feeling was quickly subsumed by a second rush of warmth that Clint felt all the way to his toes. Steve had held him – for almost _three hours!_ – while he slept. He had _held_ Clint, letting him rest, safe and comfortable in his arms. Well, _under_ his arm, anyway. That had to mean Steve felt _something_ for him; at least, something beyond getting warm for Clint’s form. Right?

Maybe?

_Hopefully._

“Shit, though, it’s almost nine.” Clint stretched, arching back, lifting his elbows up until he heard the soft _click-crick_ of his shoulders popping back into place. He grabbed his empty mug from atop the bookshelf, giving Steve his best sheepish nod and heading into his own bedroom. “Sorry about that, roomie. I’ll get some real food started. You’re probably starving.”

"Uh-huh.” Steve paused, long enough that Clint had time to dig his t-shirt back out of the hamper and pull it on before he spoke, again. “No rush, Clint! I still, um… I need to take a shower.”

“Cool. I’m all cleared out; take your time.” He chuckled on his way down to the kitchen. Clint heard the scramble of heavy footsteps across the floor above him, followed by the slam of the bathroom door. The slow throb of bass, and a few notes of vocals, drifted down as the shower started running.

Clint laid out breakfast – bacon, eggs, ready-bake biscuits and fruit salad – and poured himself another cup of coffee as he slid the biscuits into the oven. He whisked up the eggs, but set them aside for the moment. Breakfast wouldn’t take too long to get ready, but Clint didn’t want it getting cold; there was nothing worse than cold, soggy eggs first thing in the morning.

He hadn’t thought he’d need to wait very long, but the minutes kept dragging by. Clint poured himself a fourth cup of coffee, started a second pot, and refilled Lucky’s food bowl. He checked the time on the microwave. _09:12._ Weird? Definitely. Good? Maybe…

Steve was precise about a lot of things, even on the weekend. Five-minute miles for a more _relaxed_ pace. Reps of twenty-five instead of fifty or one-hundred because he was _taking it easy._ A full eight-minute shower if he was planning to _indulge_. People in other countries might set their watches by the trains, but Clint was pretty sure Americans could set theirs by Steve Rogers.

Anyone trying to accurately set their watch _this_ morning, however, might find themselves more than a little off-time. Today, for reasons that Clint could only guiltily hope over, the water above him ran for seventeen full minutes once Steve got into the bathroom.

Clint _knew_ the spray must have gotten cold. The water heater for his apartment was tiny; even he tended to rush if he was the second one to shower.

It was another ten minutes – again, far in excess of Steve’s usual five – before his roommate padded down the stairs in a loose hoodie and sweatpants. By the way Steve was still pointedly not looking at Clint as he headed for the door, Clint could also assume that his roommate’s full-face flush had nothing to do with the _water_ being too hot.

Clint grinned behind Steve’s back. “How do you want it?”

Steve froze – leash in one hand, Lucky’s collar in the other – and finally flicked his eyes up to lock onto Clint’s face. _“Pardon?”_

“How do you want it? Hard or soft?” This was way too fun to be legal, let alone right. There was probably a little circle of hell reserved just for being a fucking tease, but Clint didn’t care. He watched as Steve’s jaw twitched for a few seconds before finally giving in, offering his roommate a reprieve. “Breakfast, Smedes. Scrambled eggs. Hard or soft?”

“However you want it.” The answer came out so quickly Steve seemed to startle himself. His roommate clipped the leash onto Lucky’s collar, turning on his heel. The door slammed behind him as Steve practically yanked Lucky into the hall, footsteps echoing as he sprinted off with the dog in tow.

Clint Barton lasted until he heard the stairwell door close before he couldn’t hold the laughter at bay. He had only just managed to get a lid on his giggles by the time his roommate got back.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most ways of cooking eggs can, in English, be subdivided by how solid the eggs are after cooking: _soft_ , still runny or watery; _medium_ set, but either gelled or not fully solid; and _hard_ completely solid or without much moisture left... So I just _had_ to let Clint turn eggs into innuendo.
> 
> Oh, well. At least Steve is still proving how good he is at running.


	10. Time Travel & Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Steve realize that sometimes looking back is what helps you move forward; it's not only people that get locked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to Rosie for the astoundingly fast read-through, and for the encouragement of my incorrigible habits.
> 
>  **Note:** There are multiple references to Clint’s less than pleasant childhood, which include very brief references that his father was abusive. They aren’t much longer than the sentence you just read, but they are in there, dear reader. Implications are also made about _why_ Steve was raised by just his mom. (At this point, canon is just a nice reference for me, but...)

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

 **Steven G**  
[ _Hope you’re ready to lose that bet._ ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _I have questions._ ]

 **Steven G**  
[ ( o ᴗ ᴖ) ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _Not helping, Smedes._ ]

 **Steven G**  
[ ( o ᴗ o) ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _Still not helping!_ ]

 **Steven G**  
[ ( o ᴗ o) ]  
[ ( o ᴗ o) ]  
[ ( o ᴗ o) ]  
[ ( o ᴗ o) ]  
[ ( o ᴗ o) ]

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Those ominous messages had come in when Clint was crouched on the roof, waiting for his mark to make the drop and trying to ignore the itch starting up in the middle of his left foot. That had been twenty-one hours ago, and he still had no idea what the hell Steve was talking about. He’d debriefed, showered, snatched a few scant hours of sleep on the plane, and made it back to the apartment in time for an exhaustingly late dinner, still without getting any sort of explanation.

Steve answered every query with another string of ominously wide-eyed smiley faces, to the point that Clint was almost afraid to open the door now that he stood in front of it. Had it been Sam, he’d have gone in with the bow drawn. Instead, Clint hitched his bag up further onto his shoulder, unlatched the door, and stepped into his apartment.

Nothing seemed particularly amiss. It was cleaner than it had been before he left, but that was unsurprising; Steve wasn’t nearly as messy as he was. There was coffee in the pot – fresh by the smell of it – and takeout burgers on the dining table, along with a pair of water-stained cardboard file-boxes that – if Clint had to guess – hadn’t been new since the 60s. Aside from the vomit-beige slide projector on the coffee table, nothing seemed too different, but, “Why the hell is _that_ there?”

“For pictures.” Clint blinked up to see Steve coming down the stairs, sheet over one arm, two of Clint’s broken field-point arrows in the other. He waved as best he could as he sidestepped his way into the living room. “SHIELD comm said you guys were coming in. Successful?”

“Yeah, it was an easy job, but what do you mean pictures?” Dumping his bag on the floor, then setting his quiver more carefully in the corner, Clint followed Steve.

His roommate had moved the television onto the floor, and was currently in the process of unfolding the sheet. Steve tossed one corner in Clint’s direction, “Hold that, will ya?” then lifted the other corner over his head. With one arrow held between his teeth – something that Clint had never known he _needed_ to see until that moment – Steve jammed the second through the sheet, pinning it into the plaster. “Can you get that end?”

Clint caught the arrow without looking, going up on tiptoe to jam it at a similar height, leaving the white sheet draped across the living room wall, just right to serve as a screen. Which, yes, explained why Steve had wanted to put it _there_ , but not much else. Clint looked back at his roommate, meeting Steve’s giddy smile with trepidation. “What does this have to do with a bet?”

“You bet that I was a cute kid – remember, before the party? – and I’m going to prove you wrong.” Steve stepped in closer, poking firmly at Clint’s shoulder, smile a little too hard-edged to be completely friendly. Striding past him and back into the kitchen, Steve lifted the top off of one of the boxes. From inside, he pulled a somewhat dusty photo-carousel, blowing on it and coughing slightly.

“I don’t know who, exactly, but some poor grad student working for SSR wrote a paper on me, and put all of the photos in my file on projector slides. Made more sense to just grab these instead of the originals.” Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “Apparently, those are in a _vault_ somewhere, and I need _permission_ to get them.”

“So…”

“So, we are going back in time, back before all of this,” Steve swept his hand down his front, highlighting himself, “happened, and I was just a fuck-ugly kid from Brooklyn.”

“Time travel? Alright.” Clint chuckled. He pulled out a few plates, loading the food onto them before he rejoined his roommate in the living room. “But you make it sound like you were some kind of troll, Smedes.”

“I was five-four, so more like a gnome, maybe?” Steve had attached the wheel of slides, and was in the process of ticking them forward, each slide progression accompanied by a soft _ding!_ that took Clint right back to third grade.

Setting the food down, mindful to drop a few fries onto the floor so Lucky wouldn’t just stick his nose right up onto their plates, Clint circled the apartment, flipping off all but the counter lights in the kitchen. He flopped back down onto the couch just as Steve flicked the switch, warming up the projector. “You say that, Steve, but I seriously doubt it.”

“Fine. Then let’s bet on it. A _real_ bet, with stakes this time.” Steve had one arm draped over the back of the couch as he turned, voice cocky. “You make it through this entire carousel without laughing, and you win.”

“Alright.” That wouldn’t be any sort of problem. Clint could, had, survived hours of torture. Repeatedly. There was no _way_ Steve’s old photos could be worse than bored Hydra recruits looking to get promoted; this would be a cakewalk. “But, when I win, I’m getting pizza topping veto power until Christmas _._ ”

“Some people _like_ anchovies.” Steve’s elbow caught him in the arm.

“And those people are _wrong_ , even if they _are_ all-American heroes or whatever.” Clint knocked him back, getting a good dig in under Steve’s ribs.

“Fine. But, since you _will_ laugh…” Here, Steve paused, smile going straight past smirk, until it skirted the edge of menacing. “I’ll be getting to pick where we eat dinner after the ballgame.”

Clint hadn’t seen anything close to _that_ expression on Steve’s face since the night of the party, and that had been at a distance. This was definitely one time when he was getting a better view up-close; with the lights low and Steve looking at him like that, maybe a little too close. Clint felt something flop in his gut, warm and jittery. He nodded anyway, sliding his expression into his best neutral poker-face, extending his hand. “Deal.”

Steve’s palm clapped against his, his roommate’s grip solid, hand warm around Clint’s as they shook. “Deal.”

Resting his plate on his knee, Clint Barton sat back to enjoy the show.

•°☆°•

The first picture hadn’t gotten a laugh out of Clint, though he hadn’t been able to stop his little coo. It didn’t matter that it was a grainy transfer of a shitty black and white photograph. It _was_ a baby picture after all. Steve looked like most babies; wide-eyed and dazed, like the entire world was some sort of waking nightmare. Which, to be fair, Clint often found it was. For a baby, Steve was on the thin side, but he wasn’t particularly funny looking. The only thing that seemed strange was that, well, little baby Steve was in a lace-trimmed dress that hung down at least two or three feet past the ends of his legs. “Nice frock.”

“It’s a christening gown, and I see that smile, Barton.”

“It wasn’t a laugh. Keep going.”

The next few weren’t bad, and looked to be spaced about a year apart: Steve, probably about two, standing in front of a chair, once again in a dress, then at about three, standing with a group of other children in front of a set of church doors, probably in the spring. That one had been cropped so that Steve was in the centre, blond hair falling into his face, little white dress brushing his shoes. The next slide was nearly the same picture, but maybe a year or two later, with Steve finally _not_ in anything with lace, but now wearing the silliest little short-pants and suspenders Clint had ever seen, standing at the end of a row of equally silly looking little children. Three similar photos followed, all in front of the same building, all with Steve in the nearly same getup, always on the end. “Okay, I know times were tight, but there is _snow_ on the ground in that picture. Why aren’t you in _real_ pants, Steve?”

“Short-pants were a thing, Clint.”

“Like dresses?” He poked Steve in the side.

“Dresses until you were toilet trained, short-pants until you were older. Ten or eleven, usually. I wasn’t tall enough for them until I was fourteen.” Steve huffed at that, brows dropping, and flicked through a few more. “It was fucking awful.”

“Well, it looked adorable.” Clint watched as the other children seemed to spring up like weeds around him, little Stevie-short-pants the most consistently recognizable through the years. “I’m still waiting for evidence of this ugly-gnome you claim to have been.”

“Brace yourself for grade eight.” Steve pressed the button, and the projector _ding!_ -ed forward to the next slide.

Clint knew he’d lost even before he slammed his hand up over his mouth. The little snort had already wormed its way out into the room, and he could see his roommate grinning in his periphery. But, in spite of the smug, looming proximity of the Steve sitting next to him, it was the grainy Steve projected on the makeshift screen that had Clint’s full attention. He hadn’t _wanted_ Steve to be right, and it felt wrong to insult a kid, even if that kid had grown up to be the epitome of hot, but, damn! “Holy shit, Smedes. Suspenders _and_ a bow tie?”

“You lose something without the colour. My ma made it; it was mauve.”

“I’m at a loss. Honestly, I can’t tell where the nose ends and the ears start…” Clint gasped in a lungful of air, squeaking it out, tittering more than laughing. He couldn’t even process how much worse Steve must have looked at the time; the monochromatic quality of the image automatically added an air of dignity, but only just. The ridiculousness started at the top and went all the way down.

Steve’s hair had been cut pretty much like it was now, and someone had tried to smooth it down with cream or oil, but the three cowlicks at the back had refused to cooperate. His ears could have, charitably, been referred to as jug-handles, and the rest of his thin face was dominated by such an overwhelming prominence of nose that Clint did a double take between the image and the grinning man beside him. _Yeah, same nose,_ but current Steve had enough in cheekbones and jawline that it at least looked balanced. The collar of picture Steve’s shirt made his neck look too skinny, the ankle crop of his pants doing the same for his legs, and the suspenders somehow coming off as both too tight and oversized. He was staring, stoic and cold-eyed, straight out of the shot, and it was the most defiantly pathetic thing Clint had ever seen. “That is absolutely tragic, Steve.”

“It really is.” His roommate nodded solemnly, arms crossing over his chest.

“I concede…” Clint flopped back into his corner of the couch, gently shooing Lucky back from their cooling food with one foot. “There aren’t even words… I’d seen pictures of you, and I could swear you didn’t look _that_ bad.”

“I grew into it a little before Rebirth. Still gawky, but,” Steve shrugged back at the screen, smile wistful, “still better than _that.”_ As if to prove his point, Steve clicked forward to the next slide, bringing up the familiar profile shot from when SSR had first recruited him; the same one that showed up in every textbook and exhibit the world over.

“Yeah, that was… woo!” He scrubbed at the edge of his eye, blinking away a mirthful tear. “You win. Hands down. I still stand by it that _that_ you-” Clint gestured to the comparatively smaller, but at least more recognizable Steve projected up on the sheet. “-was still pretty cute, but that last picture was awful, and, I would hate laughing at a kid, but Smedes…” He trailed off, again, snorting into the back of his hand.

“Believe me; nothing is more mortifying that knowing someone dug those photos up and put them in a doctoral thesis.” Steve laughed, setting the projector clicker down and reaching for his food.

Clint joined him, still feeling the occasional giggle worm its way out of his throat as he ate. He’d finished his burger, then gotten halfway through feeding Lucky the rest of his fries, when Steve nudged his leg. “Yeah?”

“What about you?” Steve swallowed as his chin tipped in Clint’s direction. “You said you were a cute kid. Got any proof?”

“That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I’ll make it a pizza place if you show me?”

Clint shrugged, tossing another fry up for Lucky to catch in his mouth. Proof like that was hard to come by; half his childhood was before he’d had a record, after all. Clint wiped the grease off his hands and onto his pants, then pushed up from the sofa. “I don’t have a lot like those posed ones of yours.”

“Catholic school Easter photos.” Steve grimaced around a mouthful of burger. “Not exactly fun, all things considered.”

“Yeah, yeah, just, ya know?” Clint was glad he hadn’t changed out of his tac pants. Sweats didn’t always have pockets he could shove his hands into. “Not many pictures from when I was a _kid_ kid. More from when I was high school age, I guess?”

“Still counts. I might even _not_ get anchovies.” Steve winked at him, all jaunty and cute, and Clint would have choked if he’d still been eating.

“Alright… I’ll go get ‘em.” He turned away from Steve’s triumphant smile, jogging up the stairs, trying to remember where he’d put that damned box. It _had_ been living in a little stack in the spare room, but once Steve had moved in, Clint had needed to find it a new home, away from pretty, prying eyes. He just needed to figure out where that was. Oh. _Right._ He’d put it where all the childhood monsters lived.

Clint dug the box out from under his bed, debating dumping out a few of the pictures. _Most_ of the pictures. He didn’t need to take the whole box downstairs. Steve didn’t need to see _those_ pictures. Sorting through them up here, though, would take too much time. He would just have to only pull out the good ones; the rest could keep living in their cardboard prison. Clint tucked it under his arm and went back down.

He flicked the corner lamp on, brightening the room just enough that both he and Steve had to blink a few times to refocus. Clint dropped back onto the sofa, cradling the battered shoe box on his lap. “So, those school photos of yours? I have something kinda similar, I mean, they’re basically mugshots, but same purpose.”

Clint couldn’t tell if Steve’s face was leaning more towards shocked or incredulous, but he had already looked away to lift the lid by the time Steve asked. “You're kidding?”

“No.” He rooted through the first layer – mostly cover photos for spare identities, a few of him and Nat when they’d been under together – before reaching the tissue paper divider. Clint lifted it, setting the newer photos in the box lid atop the table, and kept digging, rooting through the older ones, trying to find something he didn’t regularly wish he’d just burned.

“The foster homes took yearly pictures, but I didn’t want any of those. They didn’t look like me.” Clint bypassed the lone yearbook photo with his hair all buzzed off because of lice, along with the wide-eyed shots of him and Barney smashed in between six other kids. He reached, instead, for a tattered three-by-five, faded around the edges, with the rusty imprint of a paperclip marring the right corner. “This one, though. _That’s_ me.”

Clint handed the photo over to Steve, gauging the other man’s reaction. He knew it wasn’t the type of photo most people would have been proud to share, but it was the oldest picture he had that he could recognize himself, his _actual_ self, reflected in. This photograph had none of the awkward terrified stillness that pervaded the family photos he’d left back in Iowa, nor any of the carefully arranged normality of the posed shots from his foster homes.

Clint was in a plaid shirt he’d stolen from the thrift store, short sleeves jagged from where he’d slashed them with the same wire cutters he’d used to get through the fence in the first place. His hair went in every direction, except in the spot just above his left eye where the blood – not his, that time – had dried down and left it smooth. His right was just starting to bruise closed. There was a scrape across his nose, and a _fuck-you_ smile lopsidedly stretching his face. _Mason County Juvenile Services_ arched across the wall above his head as he stood stiffly, head thrust forward, chin tipped up in challenge. They’d made Clint hold his wrist in his hand to keep him from flipping off the camera, but he’d still managed a wink with the non-blacked eye.

Beside him, Steve was silent, still except for where his thumb traced the ragged edge of the photo paper. He cleared his throat, but didn’t look up to ask. “This is your _favourite_ photo from when you were a kid?”

“It’s the first one that has me in it that I don’t kinda _hate?”_

“That’s… that’s actually really fucking sad, Clint.” Now his roommate did turn, eyes downcast and misty, voice even lower than normal. “How _old_ were you?” he murmured, gaze ticking between Clint’s face and the picture.

“Mason County, so… eleven? Almost twelve. I got caught after a few days; they’d already brought Barn in.” Clint gently tugged the snapshot out of Steve’s lax fingers, settling it back at the bottom of the pile. That hadn’t been what Steve expected, Clint knew, but he hadn’t wanted to lie. He had enough cover stories of happy idyllic childhoods to pull from, but that part of himself wasn’t something he’d wanted to keep from his… _roommate_. Not from Steve.

Judging by the half-vacant stare Clint was getting from him, though, maybe he should have bypassed the start of his juvi record. Clint would have at least looked less like a scruffy, blond foundling if he had skipped right on to the teen years. He didn’t want to stop on such a sour topic, even if it was a pretty solid example of what sprung to mind when he thought of his childhood.

“I’ll find a better one.” Flipping past a few more similar photos – each one showing him a little taller, a touch angrier than the last – Clint reached for a glossy cut-out from one of the old circus playbills, unfolding it to full size. It was embarrassing, but it would probably cheer Steve up, just a little. “Look, Smedes. Me at sixteen. Told you I was cute.”

His roommate took his time looking over, but snatched the page away as soon as he did. Steve gawked a moment at the full-page picture before squawking out a wheezing, “That’s you?!” He curled his lower lip in, biting into it until it looked almost painful before a peal of laughter bubbled out of him. Steve shook, first his head, then his entire body, the laughter getting raspier by the minute until he finally bent over his knees with a high-pitched squeak. “It's, um... I mean, you _were_ cute, but…”

Swiping across his eyes with the back of his free hand, Steve sat back up. “Fuck, Clint. I thought my old road show uniform was bad, but what even is that?”

“Lycra.” Clint didn’t need to look down to know, he remembered all too well. “Glitter sprayed, sequin covered, itchy as shit Lycra.”

“You were wearing those,” Steve tapped the picture, “and making quips about my short pants?”

The _those_ in question were a pair of barely there short-shorts. If Clint was honest with himself, they had been closer to being hot pants than shorts by the time he was done with them. Clint had inherited the costume when he took over the Hawkeye gig from his brother, but he’d refused to wear the whole thing. By the time this picture had been taken, he’d altered the full bodysuit down into the smallest pair of shorts he could get away with – they were touring in the Midwest, after all – and traded in the jacket for a simple open vest. The cuff-top boots were ridiculous, but comfortable, and the mask was just fun to wear, but the whole ensemble was pretty fucking awful. _‘Twinky Sparkle Cupid,’_ Barney had called him, and, for once, his brother hadn’t really been wrong.

Clint answered Steve’s barely-suppressed mirth with a single quirked brow. “It was hot as fuck in that tent, and the less costume there was, the less of a rash I got.”

“I'm not even sure those count as shorts Clint, and definitely not pants.” Steve passed the clipping back with another chuckle. “How did you even get those on?”

“Same way I would now, Smedes.” He took the clipping back, refolding it so that it would fit. “Just pull ‘em up my legs.”

“You _kept_ them?”

Clint wasn’t going to admit that sometimes, when he was feeling every one of his years, he slipped them back on to make sure they still fit. Or that they still did. Mostly. “It’s not like they really fit well – I mean, not unless I wear them like you wear your shirts – but, yeah, sentimental value.”

“Ah.” Steve’s brows lifted into his hair line and he looked down at his lap. “Well, you were pretty cute, even if you already looked like you could have kicked my ass back then.”

Clint grinned back at him. “Yeah, right, Smedes. Half-deaf, teenage-runaway carney. What was I going to do, juggle you?”

“You probably could’ve if we’d been the same age. _Really_ small, remember?” Steve nudged their knees together. “You looked ridiculous, but still, way better than the one where you were bleeding.”

“Not my blood, anyway. But my best kid picture – and I wasn’t eighteen yet, so it counts – is _actually_ from a mission.” Clint pulled the lid onto his lap, pulling out the last photo in the pile of his old cover identities. “This one.”

The picture was technically also a mugshot, though it was a really good one. Clint had already been with SHIELD at that point, but it had still been pretty early in his career, before there was really any risk of him being recognized out in the field. They had needed someone new, and he hadn’t ever seen the inside of a Latverian prison before, so it had worked out.

The jumpsuit was standard issue grey, so it didn’t do Clint any favours, but at least it wasn’t convict-orange. He had just enough stubble to show, but on a jaw not yet filled out enough to really make it work well. Clint still had his eyebrow piercing in, which he kind of missed, but the thing he liked the best was the hair. He had buzzed the sides close, fading the cut in bands, topped off with a mohawk. The coloured tips were the perfect last touch.

“Lavender?”

“It was brighter, but it faded out pretty fast, so yeah, lavender by the time they actually booked me.”

“Huh.” Steve nudged him in the arm. “Never knew you had such a colourful life growing up.”

“Well, not all of us have our past as a matter of public record.”

“Yeah… Do you, um, have any with your family?”

“Steve, you _met_ my brother, and my dad was a fuckhead alcoholic with a bad mouth and worse fists, so… So no, I didn’t exactly save that many family photos.” The honest truth was that Clint had one, just one, cut up and tattered, hidden inside an envelope beneath all of the others, as far as possible from view as he could get it. Clint had taken a pair of scissors to the top the first chance he’d had, excising Harold Barton from the picture as much as he could, leaving it nearly square, just him, his brother, and his mom. Even so, that didn’t cut out the memories that came with it.

Steve tipped his head into his hand, knee brushing casually against Clint’s, again. “Yeah… I kind of get that.”

“Do you?” Clint had read Steve’s file – and what person living in New York _hadn’t_ seen the Captain America exhibit at least once? – but he couldn’t recall much of anything about a shitty home-life. The SHIELD documents had listed more – _‘raised by single mother, Sarah,’ ‘possible dyslexia,’ ‘frequently ill,’ ‘artistically inclined’_ – but nothing that would have hinted at the kind of problems Clint had known.

“I mean… I don’t remember much about him, but that little is enough.” Steve picked the projector clicker back up. He tapped at the button a few more times – zipping past pictures of him on the roadshow, in the field, smiling somewhere in Europe – until a posed black and white photo – mom, dad, two kids – blinked up on the screen. Clint could tell Steve's parents were both tall, even with his mother seated. Both also had blond or lighter brown hair; hers pulled back in a low bun, his clipped short on the sides and combed back on top. Mrs. Rogers held a baby in her lap. Clint could recognise Steve as the older child leaning against her leg. It was a formal shot, taken in a tidy, tiny kitchen, and, just like most pictures of the time, no one was smiling.

If Clint hadn’t known what to look for, he would have missed it, but the scant evidence was all there in Steve’s photograph; the too tight grip of his father’s hand on his mother’s shoulder, the tightness around her eyes and the hard set of her mouth, the way her arms held the baby tucked too close and Steve fully pressed against her leg. At least Sarah Rogers had had a little bit of a height advantage. And, now that he looked, the same hard, defiant jaw and eyes her son had inherited. “Ma kicked him out when I was four, I think? After my brother died.”

“You look like her.” Clint wasn’t sure there was much else to say at the moment. “You have her eyes.”

“And her nose. My mother was a… _handsome_ woman.”

“She looks protective. I’m surprised she let you volunteer.”

“Ma died when I was in high school.” Steve chuckled bitterly. “The nuns let me stay on as a cleaner in the rectory to finish out, then I moved in with Bucky.”

Clint slid his hand along the bottom of his shoe box, until they brushed a folded paper corner. Lifting the envelope flap, he slid the picture out, setting it in an open space on the table. “This is my mom.”

“She looks so small.”

“Yeah. She was.” Clint blinked, only now realizing that, even before he’d benefited from all of that science, Steve Rogers had _still_ been bigger than his mom. When she’d bustled him and his brother out of the room – whenever she’d stood between the rage of a man she’d married and her children – Edith Barton had seemed enormous; even though, had she still been alive, she would have made Natasha look big. “Me and Barn both take after our dad.”

“Well, even if he was a total piece of shit,” Steve motioned to the missing section of photograph, “at least he must have been handsome. Guess you got your personality from your mom?”

“Naw, my mom was a sweetheart. I probably pulled it out of the garbage. Most of the best things in my life are second hand or dumpster finds.” Needing to touch something, and – no matter how much he might _want_ to – knowing this wasn’t the best time to hug Steve, Clint reached down to rub his hand over Lucky’s ears. The dog perked up, sitting so that he could put his head over Clint’s knee, lone eye winking sleepily. “See, Lucky knows it. When you’ve gotta make do, you make do with what you’ve got, right, boy?”

Lucky drooled onto his pants and wagged his tail.

“You could probably stand to replace a few things, yeah.” Steve was staring out the window when Clint lifted his head, but he bobbed in his seat, making the springs of the couch squeak beneath him.

Clint looked from the couch, then up to the man sitting on the end of it. Steve looked tired, smaller than usual, curled in on himself. Clint reached over, patting against the back of the couch; if his fingers brushed the edge of Steve’s hand, well, that was probably alright. “Maybe I’ve just got a penchant for vintage, Smedes.”

“Guess so.” Steve shrugged, but he didn’t pull his hand away when he turned back.

Clint left his arm where it was. He was still able to lean over and grasp the edge of a picture he recognized, a picture he _liked_ , from the stack on the lid. It was the first shot he’d managed to wrangle Natasha to take with him and Phil. The three of them were all in their field gear, battered and weary after a mission. Phil and ‘Tasha stood in the front, while Clint was behind them with both arms slung around their shoulders. Phil looked exhausted, and Natasha looked pissed. Clint looked giddy, but it was just him being high from blood loss; he’d passed out a few minutes after they took the shot.

“This is a better family photo.” Clint leaned in close to Steve’s side, not letting go of the picture, but holding it up for his roommate look at. “See?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Agent Coulson _not_ in a suit.” Steve nodded, head almost brushing Clint’s shoulder. The other man sucked in a breath, then yawned, tipping slowly back onto the arm of the couch, pulling his own arm into his lap. “Sorry. You gonna be up?”

“Not for long.” Clint found himself both grateful and disappointed at the loss of their proximity, but he leaned back as well. They both needed a break; at least Clint knew _he_ did. Running his heart through a memory laced gristmill hadn’t been on his agenda for the evening.

Clint tucked the rest of his scattered pictures back into the shoe box and lowered the lid. He stretched as he stood, popping a few joints before he picked the box back up, then motioned to the projector and screen. “Do you want me to help you get this stuff put away?”

“Nah.” Steve turned off the projector, slide carousel already in hand. He slid past Clint, scooting between his side and the coffee table, then dropped the carousel into the box and set the lid back on top of it. “All done. Although…”

Steve pointed to where the bedsheet hung, pinned by Clint’s arrows, on the wall. “That sheet died with honour for the cause, and I think all my others are in the laundry.”

“Take mine, I’ll be fine with the blanket, and your room’s the cold one.” Clint flipped off the living room light and kicked his shoes under the coffee table. He headed up to his room, box under his arm, Lucky at his heels, reaching the top of the stairs just as Steve was hitting the fifth.

“I should be fine with the afghan. I run hot, Clint.”

Clint turned, halfway into the bathroom, to smile back at him. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Clint had given him the top sheet, anyway. He had already stripped down to his undershirt and boxers and sprawled across his mattress, Lucky curled up at his side, by the time Steve had finished remaking his own bed. Clint hadn’t even managed to pull the blanket all the way up before he’d passed out.

Steve did his best to stay quiet as he slipped back into the other man’s room. With Clint face down on the bed, it was simple enough to slip the tactical BTEs off his ears, to pull the comforter up to his roommate’s shoulders.

Clint mumbled softly through a little snore, “Thansh Shdebe,” and burrowed his way under the blanket, snuggling in closer to the dog.

Steve smiled to himself. Tucking Clint in had become automatic. He did it most often when Clint had flung the sheets off before Steve woke up, but there had been a few times like this, where he had been too sleepy to even get into bed in the first place. At least he’d made it out of his shoes this time.

“You’re welcome.” Steve closed the door between their rooms, sliding into his own bed, tucked under Clint’s sheet and the blanket the man had made for him.

Tonight had been… overwhelming on a number of levels. The nostalgia, seeing old New York even in the backgrounds; his Ma and his old self. The digging through parts of his past he hadn’t ever shared; parts of Clint’s that it seemed he hadn't really _wanted_ to share with anyone. The closeness and the touches; and Clint agreeing – _Mostly. Unknowingly?_ – to go out to dinner with him after the game.

Steve realized he was happily squirming under his bedding. He wedged himself closer against the wall, tucking his arm up under his chin, then lowering it when he scrapped against the growing beard on his face. That was going to be worth it. Everything, even everything from tonight, was going to be worth it. Already was, really.

He knew Clint thought he was attractive; his roommate was generous with compliments, so Steve had known _that_ even before he moved in. But tonight had shown Steve that Clint trusted him beyond having his back in a fight. It was a long shot, but Steve had grown up on fights with bad odds, so that wasn’t anything new. Maybe all those little things he’d noticed – the jokes that were just a bit too bawdy, the glances that didn’t quite cut away when they should, the little touches like the ones on the couch – maybe there was a chance that he wasn’t reading too much into those. Maybe Clint liked him back; liked him _that way._

Possibly.

_Hopefully._

And, maybe, if things went the way Steve hoped, he’d know soon. It was past midnight now, which meant today was already the twentieth.

Steve pulled the sheet down to his nose, feeling just a touch less guilty imagining Clint was there beside him as he drifted off.


	11. Lift*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lift can raise you up in many senses: Steve learns that Tony is a font of hard-earned wisdom, unexpected support, and petty vengeance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another non-bingo square chapter, but I had to do it.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Clint’s voice was a cheery echo in Steve’s ear as he came in over the all comm. _“Me and Falcon are headed up town for karaoke. Widow’s already got our usual table, but she flies out tomorrow. You two coming?”_

Steve shrugged and shook his head, knowing that, even if he couldn’t see Hawkeye perched up on whatever roof he’d chosen as his lookout, the other man could probably see him.

“No can do, Songbird. Stabilizers are a little wonky on the right side.” Tony answered as he leaned against Steve’s side, flipping his faceplate back. The suit had already started dissolving back into itself, but Steve could see that the right boot remained where it was, sparking like it had since the last few moments blasting through that final wave of transdimensional ladybugs. “Spangles is gonna be my crutch for a few blocks until the system sorts out.”

“ _Alright. We’ll hold a spot for you guys.”_ There was a whistle of air and a soft _uff_ ; Hawkeye had jumped down off of something. “ _Bye, Tony. Later, Smedes.”_

The comms were silent for a full minute before Falcon’s voice cut in. “ _Who is Smedes?”_

“ _Cap.”_

Steve was mid-step when Tony started snickering beside him. His laughter threw off their already wonky gate for a moment. Tony took a deep breath, looking sideways at Steve with a smirk as he asked. “You two have a secret handshake to go with the pet names, Hawkeye?”

“ _You're just jealous Steve’s got a roommate that’s not a robot.”_

“Touché.” Tony’s eyebrow quirked further and he rolled his eyes in Steve’s direction. “You kids have fun tonight.”

“ _I'll sing some Zeppelin for you. Hawkeye, out.”_

The line went silent, and Steve ignored the light nudge of Tony’s shoulder as the older man chuckled. “Smedes? Cute.”

Getting back to the tower was fairly straightforward. They didn’t have that far to walk, and Steve had been in civilian clothes when this had started. Aside from the spare shield on his other arm – plain vibranium, so already less noticeable – and the red metal boot still faintly sparking on Tony’s leg, they looked as normal as either of them usually did.

Tony tipped his head as they walked, giving Steve’s jawline a thoughtful look for a moment, before asking. “If Nat and Clint are SpySibs, does that mean you and I are BeardBros, now?”

“Only until Monday night.” Even the mention of the hair on his face seemed to make it itch anew, and Steve rubbed absently at the edge of his beard. “I honestly can’t handle this as a permanent part of my face.”

“Huh… So, why are you doing it, then? Not that it looks _bad_ on you, Cap – the whole rugged shaggy look just ups the beefcake quotient; Pepper’s words, not mine – but…” Tony’s words hung in the air as they rounded the corner, taking a back entrance into one of the many garages connected to the Stark Industries buildings. Tony grabbed onto the stair rail, letting go of Steve as they headed down. “It’s been three weeks. What on earth got you doing it this long if you’re not going to _keep_ it?”

Behind him, Steve shrugged. “Does there need to be a reason?”

“Mm. See, that right there? Answering a question with another question? That is a classic misdirection tactic when you want to change the subject.” Tony swivelled to walk backwards – because who else would walk backwards _down_ the stairs to keep talking to someone? – and grinned up at him. “I see what you’re trying. Turning it around into _me_ being weird.”

“Tony,” Steve chuckled, pointing down at the other man’s feet by way of explanation, “you _are_ weird.”

“No denying that, but you’re still hiding something…” Tony gave him one last squint before turning properly forward, stomp-hobbling his way down the rest of the stairs until Steve could catch up to him. They reached the elevator and were waiting for the car to come down before Tony spoke, again. “I’m not printing any more shirts for you.”

“What?”

“Oh, no, it’s obvious. It’s Barton – it _is_ Barton, isn’t it? – because otherwise you would have left already.” Tony nodded down to his leg; the last piece of his suit was gone, glitching-sparking boot all nanomachined away. “You're here because you need my help. Or my advice, which, I will remind you, would have worked if you had actually _followed_ it.” Tony did one of his infuriating know-it-all shrugs, elbow hitting Steve in the side. “I’m kind of a genius.”

“Tony…”

“Fine, fine, I’ll drop it.” Tony looked forward, back toward the elevator doors, long enough to take a breath and give Steve the slightest sliver of hope that he might have been telling the truth.

He hadn’t, of course. “All I’m saying is that I _did_ tell you that you needed to be obvious, and – clearly – you did not follow that advice, or you would be off playing tonsil hockey with Hawkeye, which you most certainly are not doing.”

Steve briefly considered going back up the stairs, but then the elevator doors slid open and he stepped into the lift out of habit. It was only five floors up to the lobby. Not too long to wait with a normal person.

“So…” Unfortunately, Tony Stark was far from being any sort of _normal_ person, and Steve knew he could fit an entire day’s worth of words into the time it took to hit the lobby. “… Barton has a thing for guys with facial hair? I mean, I can understand him not going after Fury – smart move – and I’m not his type – to be honest, though, I’d probably date Bruce if I had to pick one of you guys – but you might want to get in on that quick before Thor gets back. Just saying; he’s blond, too, and he can _braid_ his.”

“It’s not…” Steve stumbled over his words. Clint _had_ said the beard looked hot on him, but that wasn’t the reason he was doing this. It was just for their night out, that was all. Steve took a deep breath, releasing it in a rush. “Monday night. We’re going to a baseball game as civilians.”

Tony turned, head tilted to one side. “Just the two of you? Way in the back? Did he suggest hats and sunglasses?”

“Yeah…”

“Knew it!” Tony clapped his hands together, one finger jabbing at the air in front of him, smile oddly triumphant. “That combo will usually keep you off of kiss cam, so you’ll have some privacy, even at the ball game.” He patted Steve on the shoulder. “Congratulations on your date, Spangles.”

Steve looked at the numbers – They were still at Basement 3?! – and sighed. “It’s not a date, Tony.”

“Really? ‘Cause, I know I wasn’t invited.”

 _I wonder why._ The bell dinged, letting Steve know that he could escape in two more floors. It couldn’t happen fast enough.

“Is Natasha going? Sam? Kate?”

“No, Tony.” Steve could feel the car slow as it neared the lobby. He jammed his finger against the _Door Open_ button, even as Tony leaned in close to his side.

“So Clint asked you to grow out the beard so the two of you could go, _alone_ and _off hours_ , to a ball game none of the rest of us were invited to, or even knew about? But that this _isn’t_ a date, that’s what you’re saying?”

The doors opened. The little bell chimed out into the lobby, sounding like the hymns of angels as Steve saw escape by way of the revolving door just across the tiles finally within reach. He hefted the shield higher on his arm, stepping out of the car. “Well, looks like I’ve got you back alright, so I’ll be seeing you, Tony.”

“Uhp-uhp-uhp, nope, get back on the elevator.” Tony was _not_ stronger than he was, but he had surprise and leverage on his side as he hauled Steve backwards into the lift by his jacket collar. “There we go… JARVIS, why don’t we slow the car to half speed, huh?”

“ _Of course, sir.”_

Steve slammed his hand against the buttons for the second-floor balcony and the third-floor walkways. “Belay that order JARVIS.” The tower atrium wasn’t that high up. Steve would _jump_ if he had to.

“ _One moment, Captain Ro-”_

“JARVIS, override: _Code Icepop_. Take us up to my floor, quarter speed, please.”

“ _Code Icepop acknowledged. I’ll speak with you later, Captain.”_

Steve saw the little blue light by the camera fade away; JARVIS was no longer monitoring them. He watched in horror as the lights of the floor select buttons blinked out, the display panel only flashing _LOCKED_ as the car slowed to the pace of a normal elevator. With soft bells steadily chiming out the sound of his inevitable impending torture, Steve turned back to look at where Tony leaned casually at the rear of the car, smirking up at him.

Steve checked the straps on his shield, mostly for the familiar comfort of bracing up; he didn’t plan on using it in here. Hopefully. He settled against the side wall of the car, pointedly not looking at Tony.

– _Ding!_ Nine. _Ding!_ Ten. –

The car steadily crept upward, and Steve relegated himself to waiting out the awkward silence of the next eighty-odd floors. He closed his eyes, both arms crossed over his chest, perched on the handrail as he slumped back. Steve felt just a bit better with the shield between Tony’s stare and himself, but only the _tiniest_ bit.

– _Ding!_ Sixteen. –

The silence settled between them as the car moved on. He opened his eyes, but kept staring forward. In his periphery, Steve could see Tony watching the numbers tick upward beside the doors.

– _Ding!_ Twenty-eight. –

Tony coughed politely, mirroring Steve’s pose, arms crossed over his chest. He levelled his gaze back on Steve’s face, tired and unamused. “So, what are you scared of, Steven?”

The last time Tony had used his full first name it had been followed by the words ‘ _Quit acting like a child.’_ Steve set his jaw; he wasn’t being _childish_ , only cautious, and, besides, “I’m not scared.”

“Right. No, of course you’re not.” With a shrug, Tony turned his head back toward the front of the car. “You’re not scared.”

– _Ding!_ Thirty-six. –

Steve caught Tony’s glare reflected in the elevator door and rolled his eyes. Why did shit always have to happen to him in the god-damned elevator? He turned, scooting to tuck himself into the corner, waiting to speak until Tony glanced back. “Tony. I’m not scared.”

“Oh, yeah. I got that… I’m _not_ a recovering alcoholic with control issues, and you’re _not_ scared.” Tony uncrossed his arms, looking down and away for a beat before he swivelled. The shorter man matched Steve’s posture, again, leaning into the opposite corner with a huff. “Nice thought, but cut the bullshit, Rogers. What’s eating you so bad about this whole thing?”

– _Ding!_ Forty-one. –

Stark’s tone was enough to make him look away; the _thing_ in question wasn’t his current entrapment in an elevator. Steve tipped his chin to his chest, forehead resting on the upper edge of his shield. What was eating him? What the hell _wasn’t_ at this point?! He hadn’t expected to have gotten this fucking invested; not in something that was only a _possibility!_ There were so many ways to screw up racing through Steve’s mind, but they all led to the same conclusion and that-!

– _Ding!_ Fifty. –

Honestly? Yes, that _did_ scare him because, despite the headaches – and the _heartaches_ – of living with Clint for nearly a year, Steve had liked it. More than _liked_. Far more than. If he couldn’t get a handle on things, though? If he overstepped, if he’d been reading this entire thing wrong? Well, then that was it, and _it_ was over. And nothing that had ever really been _over_ had gone very pleasantly for Steve.

– _Ding!_ Sixty-five. –

Steve looked to the door, then sighed, voice a whisper. “I don’t want it to end…”

“What, you moping around like a confused puppy?”

– _Ding!_ Sixty-nine. –

“No, the-” Steve stumbled, then paused. He hated talking about this, but he still had more than thirty floors to go. He took a deep breath, releasing it in one long huff. “Look the doctors said I probably wouldn’t see twenty. Then I figured _Rebirth_ would kill me. Then the front, then the crash. But I just keep still making it, even when everybody-” Steve’s words were cut off; Tony had reached across the car to press his hand over Steve’s mouth.

“Okay, stop.” Tony removed his hand with a slight grimace, wiping it on his trousers as he continued. “One; I see where you’re going, but don’t even start with that _everyone I love dies_ crap. You just can’t _not_ self-martyr, can you?”

“Not sure if you noticed, but none of us are exactly easy to take out.” Maybe it was unconscious, but Tony tapped his fingers against the arc reactor glowing faintly through his shirt. “I know things were different back in the dark ages, but we’re all pretty damn sturdy these days. Barton especially, all things considered.”

Steve wanted to answer that, could feel himself glaring back, but Tony just shook his head. He reached out, tapping his fingers against the edge of the shield so that it _ping!_ ed in time with the lift bell. “I know, the job takes a lot – believe me, I get it – but if _anyone_ is going to understand all the shit that comes with this kind of work, or comes after, it’s gonna be Clint. You know it as well as I do.”

“Two – and this is one place where I am speaking from experience – if you _don’t_ take this chance, you’re going to regret it.” Tony pushed out of the corner, sliding across the back wall of the car until he could lay a hand on the side of Steve’s bicep. He ducked, head crooked to the right as he looked up at where Steve was still mostly hidden behind the shield. Tony’s expression shifted, voice now free of judgement; less angry than generally upset, almost regretful. “You’ve missed a hell of a lot of opportunities by happenstance, Steve. Do you really want to let one go on _purpose?”_

– _Ding!_ Seventy-eight. –

Feeling more than a little ridiculous hiding from his teammate behind two feet of vibranium, Steve lowered his arm. He slid the shield off, setting it to lean against the car wall, but still didn’t want to meet Tony’s eyes. “Even if it might blow up in my face?”

“Yeah, even if it might blow up in your face. _Especially_ if that might happen.” In a rare show of physical affection, Tony sidled up right next to him, leaning into Steve’s side. He lowered his pitch further, tone skirting the edge of conspiratory. “Trust me. I happen to quite literally be an expert on things that can blow up in your face.”

Tony very gently patted against Steve’s shoulder, expression wholly earnest as he looked up. “You know I used to design bombs, right?”

– _Ding!_ Eighty-two. –

Steve didn’t _want_ to acknowledge that open, friendly look; he didn’t want to laugh, either, but he couldn’t help himself. He snorted, shaking his head. Steve wrapped his arm around the shorter man’s shoulders and squeezed. “You’re a good friend, Tony.”

– _Ding!_ Eighty-five. –

“Oof, yup, any time.” Tony returned the side-hug with a pained squeak. He patted Steve’s back awkwardly as the car slowed, before he began squirming, pushing away from Steve as the doors slid open onto the eighty-seventh floor. “Any time except right now, _tonight._ Work’s over, you're all sorted out, and, well, I’ve got places to be, so…”

Steve followed as Tony walked – backwards, again – out of the car. “Places?” He ran into Stark’s outstretched arm just as his foot hit the carpet.

“Yes, places, Spangles, some of us have _actual_ dates tonight.” Tony’s arms went back over his chest as he cast a significant look over his shoulder towards his rooms, foot tapping heavily, even on the plush carpet. “Dates that we _planned_ , and that we are about to be _late_ for because Dr. Dweeb Dickards has a thing for interdimensional portals like _you_ have a thing for the blond BirdBro.”

“Now, this is _my_ stop; _yours_ is a few stories down, remember? So shoo. Go. Get.” Tony fluttered his hands in his direction, though he didn’t actually push Steve back. “I can’t keep playing therapist. I need to shower, and strict personal space boundaries come with the control issues, so if you could just go about your evening…”

Steve knew that neither of them had felt particularly comfortable about that whole chat, but he was still grateful for the nudge. “Yeah, sure, just… I really appreciate it.”

“Uh-hu, I’m glad.” Tony nodded and glanced down at his watch. “So scoot along to karaoke and subject the _rest_ of the world to your awful voice; I've had my fill for the day. The week, even.” This time, he actually did step forward, bodily walking Steve back into the still open elevator. Tony backed out, again, turning just as the doors started to close.

Steve waved his arm between them, triggering the sensors that sent the doors sliding open once more. “Wait, Tony?”

“Oh for-!” Fists clenched at his sides, Tony Stark spun around to stare at him, jaw set to at an angle, voice gradually drifting from placating to pissed. “Yes, mmhmm, what part of _places to be_ and _date_ are you not getting, Captain Cock-block?”

 _Same old Tony._ Steve smiled, genuinely thankful for the last few minutes, even if he’d tried to avoid them. “Thank you, Tony. Really.”

“You’re welcome. I mean that, Steve.” Tony nodded back, face going soft and mushy for just a moment before he could stop himself. “Now get out. Go save Barton from being the third wheel and have some fun. Goodnight.”

“Yeah. G’night.” Steve pulled his arm back into the car, letting the other man get almost to his bedroom door before he tapped the door open button. “Tony?”

Tony froze in the doorway, fingers tensing on the doorframe, but didn’t turn around. “Rogers, if you’re not gone in five seconds, I’m setting Butterfingers on you for the next month, and I’m telling Pepper _you_ made me late. You _know_ which of those is worse.”

“But we’re building rapport…” Steve really _did_ feel better; joking like this was helping, but he might have just pushed things a tad too far. Maybe. Maybe not. Tony wasn’t yelling… _yet._

Actually, from the back, it almost looked like he was laughing. “You know what, you and Hawkeye deserve each other, _Captain.”_ Tony shook his head, looking back at Steve with a smile that usually presaged the explosion of something very, very large. _Uh-oh._

“JARVIS. Initiate _Code Chucklefuck._ Lock it to track four.” Tony waved over his shoulder as the elevator doors closed, and Steve almost thought he heard the man humming.

The small monitor over the number buttons flicked back on as the car slowly began to descend. It displayed a single music note, and the soft strains of a guitar began to fill the car. Above him, the speaker played the sound of someone clearing his throat. “ _I am sorry I was unable to speak with you earlier, Captain Rogers.”_

“That’s okay, JARVIS.” Steve smiled up at the little blue light beside the ceiling mounted camera. “I'm glad we’re allowed to be friends again.”

“ _You may not wish to be friends when this trip is concluded, Captain.”_

“Oh?”

“ _I’m afraid Sir made my pronunciations of Spanish particularly obnoxious when singing, and the current protocol mandates that I sing along. Should you wish to join me, the words will be displayed on the screen.”_

JARVIS increased the volume of the song in the car as soon as he finished speaking. It wasn’t loud enough to hurt, but it was too incessant to ignore or hum over without hurting Steve’s ears. He’d heard the song before; it wasn’t _bad_ , even if he didn’t know the words. Steve didn’t know enough Spanish to comment on JARVIS’ accent – Steve felt like he always went too French with his pronunciations, anyway – but the AI did seem to be a little tone-deaf.

Glancing at the screen, Steve read along with the words, trying and failing to parse them out using the languages he _did_ know as they scrolled across the screen. – _todos mis sentidos van pidiendo –_ “JARVIS? Can you run a translation, too? It’s kind of fast…”

The AI didn’t answer him verbally – JARVIS was still nasally singing along – but responded by way of a soft _ding_. An English translation began running below in smaller text for him to read. That was better… Wait. No. _No!_ That wasn’t any better at all! This song was not helping _at all!_

Steve smashed the button for his own floor, pointedly trying to look at anything except the words ticking their way across the screen.

•°☆°•

– _Ding!_ Ground floor. –

He left the elevator at something near a sprint, dashing out into the street, headed toward the karaoke bar, desperate for music. _Any_ music except _that!_

Steve had dropped the spare shield off on his own floor, but JARVIS hadn't let him onto any of the stairwells, and that _song_ had still been going when he stepped back onto the elevator. Eighty floors at one-quarter speed had been enough! He had no idea what he would be singing tonight, but Steve knew one thing. If somebody picked _Despacito,_ he was going right out through the window.

Well, alright, two things, really. Steve also knew that – even if he was the world’s worst pain in the ass – Tony was right. Monday was his chance, and he was going to take it. Steve picked up his pace, headed for the bar, fighting the urge to hum.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not apologizing.
> 
> Steve, your love life's so sad. JARVIS, play Despacito.
> 
> Also, yes, I gave Steve a spare shield. Consider it a less dressy, less formal option.
> 
> Also, yes, had to drop another Fantastic Four reference because reasons.


	12. Maria Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria Hill makes a grocery list, and Clint reads it; subsequently, several much more important things also happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m doing my best to get this done well before the end of the Clint Barton Bingo event. Chapters may be popping up pretty quickly as I try to slam this thing out. Thank you for hanging with, dear readers!

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

While it was true that Steve couldn’t carry a tune in a paper sack, at least he was enthusiastic. Though none of them had come close to matching the sheer joy of Natasha on the stage, watching Sam trying to lead Steve through their duet had brought tears to Clint’s eyes. Still Clint had learned early on; as much as Sam loved performing, and as good as Clint was at singing, _nobody_ did karaoke like a tipsy Russian, and it was _glorious_.

Even the time they hadn’t been singing had been fun; him and Nat on one side of the booth, Sam and Steve wedged into the other. It had felt _almost_ like a double date. That hadn't been helped by Sam occasionally staring at Clint while blatantly cutting his eyes to the side – _to Steve_ – the few times Natasha got up on her own to sing, clearly urging Clint to _‘Do something!’_ That feeling had only been reinforced by Steve none too subtly stealing food off his plate the whole night; snagging fries and even some of Clint's cheddar peppers when Steve thought he wasn't looking, only to grin and shove the food in his mouth anyway when Clint caught him at it. It had sure _felt_ a lot like flirting, or something very close to it, had happened over the course of the evening, at least a little.

Last call had come too soon and, with it, the inevitable parting of ways: Steve back to the apartment, already yawning at three hours past his normal bedtime; Sam with him to crash on the couch so he wouldn’t have to stay up in the station since he wasn’t cleared to be there for Nat’s briefing and departure; and Clint and Natasha to the briefing and airport because – apparently – when she had said _early morning prep and flight_ , what she had meant was _wheels up at five am on a Sunday_.

He’d seen her off – goodbyes were too important to miss in their line of work – then trudged through the morning rush to the apartment. Steve had been a little weird, almost jumpy, when he had gotten back; Clint had been tired, but decided to just stay up, anyway, since the coffee was already made. After hashing out the plans for today over breakfast – meet at the apartment, game, dinner – Steve had retreated to the solar, leaving Clint time to clear his head, going to the range to lose himself in the rhythm of shooting for the rest of the day. By the end of it, most of the nerves – not _all_ , but _most_ – had dissipated, leaving just excitement in their wake as he tucked in to bed late Sunday night.

 _Yes_ , he had this eight o’clock expense review, and yes, it was a boring as hell way to start the week – and whoever invented morning meetings should be taken out behind a barn and _shot_ – but Clint had this afternoon, and _Steve_ , all to himself as soon as it was over.

Now that it was so close, he was finding it hard to keep waiting. He had been trying not to be too pushy, to let things just flow without pressuring his roommate, but, well… Clint could admit to not exactly giving _that_ his best effort. He _liked_ Steve. More than liked, but at least he could admit to that much, and there was a good chance Steve might figure that out soon. Maybe today. Possibly if Clint told him over dinner.

If, of course, Agent Bridges would get this stupid protocol review moving at anything beyond a glacial pace. _Some_ agents (read: _most agents_ ) didn’t give a crap about the filing expectations for field expense reports. SHIELD had accountants for a reason; as matter of course, no one in covert ops was likely to keep their receipts, anyway. The only person here who even had a cover identity related to accounting was Phil, who would have had the damn review finished before the free office coffee stopped steaming. Wanting this meeting to be over yesterday, Clint rolled his eyes heavenward, then back down to the clock on the wall.

_: 29-09 : 10:57:42 :_

It was ten fifty-seven. It was almost eleven o’clock. He only had four more hours. He could make it four _damn_ hours. He had just seen Steve at breakfast for fuck’s sake, and Clint would be seeing him again in four hours. All he had to do was slog through the last of this meeting, and then he could shower, change, and get ready to see Steve for their _almost maybe a date._

Clint flicked his eyes over the assemblage at the conference table, nodding to Maria and getting a little wave from Phil. It was kind of off-putting not to have Nat here with him – usually the three of them tended to wind up stuck together, with Hill popping in occasionally – but he didn’t blame her for bailing and taking that mission if she could. There were more enjoyable places to be; more enjoyable _people_ to be with. Clint slipped out his phone and swallowed his grumbling. It was eleven-o-one; he had three hours and fifty-nine minutes.

In his hand, Lucky smiled back at him from the lock screen, tongue lolling out as he leaned into someone’s side, a hand scratching under his chin, a cheek resting on his furred head. The dog looked so happy, ears relaxed and eye closed. Clint would have been happy if he was that dog. He swiped through both of his unlock patterns, and the picture shifted, zooming out to show the full image on his background.

Steve smiled back at him from the little rectangle of glass. He and the dog were outside; Clint and Lucky had passed Steve coming back from a run shortly after he’d moved in. Steve had one arm around Lucky, smiling up as he snuggled his cheek against the dog’s fur and flipped off the camera with his free hand. _“How come the dog gets pets, Smedes?” “Because the dog doesn’t snore, Clint.”_ Back then, Clint had meant the quip as a joke and had assumed Steve would take it as such. Now?

Well, now, despite the fact that he regularly ate out of the trash and had the depth perception of a wobbly toddler, Clint was jealous of that dog. But then, who wouldn’t be? Especially someone who knew just how good that could feel, snuggling in against Steve’s side while he pulled you close.

Clint squirmed in his seat, huffed, then relocked his phone. It was eleven-o-three; he had three hours and fifty-seven minutes.

Agent Bridges was still going through the list of unacceptable expenses, currently running down inappropriate methods of compensating informants. _Ah._ At least that explained why he’d noticed the unusual collection of senior field agents stuck in with so many newer ones, and why _he_ had been expected to attend; he may not have gotten off consequence-free, but Clint still wasn’t going to stop doodling on his expense reports or paying some of his leads in scotch. He shifted in his chair, glancing back to the two people here he actually _liked_ ; Phil was reading over paperwork from Saturday’s portal-spacebug-thing, while Maria carefully wrote out her grocery list in shorthand, something he could easily read from only two seats away: … _pears (5), broccoli (8), .38+p (50), 7th gen w/wings, dark chocolate (all)…_

His thoughts drifted back to thinking about this afternoon, and the man he’d get to spend it with. Clint had probably – _definitely!_ – been thinking about it too much, and about _Steve_ too much, but he couldn’t stop himself. Today was important! Clint had picked out his clothes for this. He had gotten a haircut for this, damnit! Clint knew he at least had to put in the effort, even if Steve would still absolutely look better than he did. Then, again, Steve always looked good, even when he was just sprawled out on the sofa, glaring and hangry, eating peanut butter with a fork and…

Clint hadn’t even realized he’d unlocked his phone. _Again._ He had started to thumb through the pictures of his roommate – still his _roommate_ , _damnit! Still!_ – without even thinking about it, pulling up that very picture, snapped when Steve was mid-bite and extra-pouty. Clint pressed the power button, going back to the lock screen. It was eleven-o-six; three hours and fifty-four minutes.

He looked back up toward the front of the room, then scanned the group. Maria was still writing – _… cheese (gouda, roquefort, havarti), hoppes 9, espresso (2 lbs)…_ – but Phil was looking back at him this time.

Phil blinked, hand moving subtly through the modified field sign they still sometimes used. _‘You okay?’_

‘ _Bored.’_

His former team lead smiled, just enough to show, and asked. _‘Nervous?’_

Clint hadn’t told him about the importance of today. He hadn’t told anyone, which meant he was broadcasting more than he’d thought. Phil and Nat were far better than most at picking up on his affect – it was unlikely anyone _else_ would have noticed – but he still needed to be careful. Clint shoved his phone into his pocket, snatching up the cheap meeting issue pen as he shook his head. _‘Bored. Tired.’_

Phil nodded, still smiling, but turned away. Clint started a doodle in the top corner of their current example document that swiftly morphed into curlicues. He shifted unknowingly into writing, then looked down. S-T-F. Clint had only just stopped before adding that third line. This was pathetic. He could practically hear Natasha’s chastising little huff in the back of his head. He hatched a square over the letters. Clint added one semi-circle and filled it in. He added a second, filling that one in, too. He realized he’d turned the square into a fucking heart, crossed an X over it, and set the pen back down.

What Clint wouldn’t give to have another sky portal right about now. Those usually wrapped up in under two hours. Traffic wouldn’t be a problem; Steve was nearly as good as Clint over rooftops, anyway. Or maybe the game would be cancelled and they could skip straight to dinner. Though, dinner wouldn’t give him the chance to smash in right next to Steve, both wedged into too close stadium seating, knees brushing, arms forced to rest on the other or, better, to rest across the back of the other’s chair. Nor would Clint get to watch Steve watch the game, grinning ear-to-ear while he cursed up a storm.

He felt a buzz in his pocket – a single long vibration – but Clint stopped himself from reaching for it. He’d taken out his phone enough, already; it was probably just another meme from Kate, anyway. He ignored it. It buzzed, again, now in a series; vibrations thrumming a pattern against his leg. One short and four long, one short and four long, two short and three long. Pause. Four long and one short, one short and four long, one short and four long. Pause. _112\. 911._

Beside him, Clint saw Phil pat at his pocket, just as Maria slid her hand inside her jacket. His phone vibrated again; it kept buzzing, even as he slid his hand into his pants pocket. _112\. 911. 112. 911. 112-_ Clint palmed his phone, only to see a message flashing across the middle of Lucky’s face.

 **WIDOW**  
[ _999 103 000 033 000 641_ ]

The override settings for Natasha's number meant the phone unlocked with a touch, and Clint immediately responded, already on his way out the door, ignoring Agent Bridges’ flustered _‘excuse me’_ s. [ _411 000 495_ ]

Her response took longer than he would have liked, but at least it came.

 **WIDOW**  
[ _411 000 030 189 000 641_ ] [ _411 382_ ]

Natasha hadn’t said where, specifically, she was going when she’d left on Friday; only that she would be somewhere in the EU. France put her team within a five-hour window, if they could get another team and a transport going. Clint looked back to find that Phil was next to him, already on the line talking flight details. “How long?”

Coulson kept the phone at his ear, flipping it up to get the speaker away from his mouth as he spoke. “There’s one on the runway; you’ll lead the team that’s already there.”

“You’re not coming?”

“It’s the coupe,” the other agent shook his head, shoulders slumping. Both of them should have been going. “The team’s staying there, regardless.”

“Right.” Nodding, Clint hammered out a response. [ _411 382_ _005_ ] [ _688 641_ ]

This time, Natasha’s reply was almost instant.

 **WIDOW**  
[ _688_ _495_ ]

Clint looked from the message to the clock along the top of the screen. It was eleven-eleven; he had to go.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

It wasn’t a date. No matter what Tony might have said, it wasn’t a date. No matter how long Steve had stayed awake the night before planning his outfit – long after Clint had tucked into bed at the much more reasonable hour of one o’clock – it wasn’t a date. Even if he _had_ offered to cover dinner after the game, had picked out a place with good pizza and surprisingly secluded booths, it wasn’t a date.

Clint was Steve's friend – Steve’s _roommate_ – and they had not cancelled the date they were supposed to have tonight because it wasn’t a date. Natasha’s call for an emergency extraction – [ _Family issues. Back soon. I’m sorry._ ] – hadn’t ruined their date because it wasn’t a date. Steve wasn’t sitting in the back booth at Rigoletto’s, halfway through the second anchovy free pizza he’d ordered on the off chance that she and Clint might make it back quickly, moping about the date he’d missed out on because it wasn’t a _fucking_ date!

Steve sniffed, choking down another mouthful of dough and cheese. He couldn’t even really enjoy his pity pizza without feeling guilty. They were a team, and he should just be hoping that Natasha was alright. Clint wouldn’t have been the guy he l- Clint wouldn’t be Clint if he hadn’t gone. Steve knew he would have done the same thing for any of them; had done so for most of them already. That was just one more thing Steve lo- _admired_ about Clint.

He wasn’t sure when he was going to get another chance like this one, though, unless he made it himself, and that was still terrifying to think about. Missed opportunity or not, Steve was almost too wary to try, again. _Again,_ again.

“You want a third, son?” From across the long-emptied restaurant, the waitress gave him a little wave, then tucked a curly strand of hair behind her ear.

“No, ma’am.” Steve shook his head, looking at the five remaining slices, unsure whether he was guilt-ridden or heartsick, or just nauseated from too much mozzarella. Maybe all three. Lucky could finish this in a day or so. “Just a doggie bag, please, Miss Viola.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Clint had been alone, waiting in a hospital room, before. He’d been away from the apartment before. He’d been away from Lucky before. He’d been away from Steve _before_ – seriously the guy hadn’t even been living with him for a full year, so it wasn’t like Steve was some fixture in his life – but… _But!_ Clint wanted Steve _here._

 _Yes_ , Natasha was mostly fine, minus a few pints of blood and with the addition of two freshly tended wounds, but Clint hated seeing her hooked up like this, pale and listless. He’d been able to get her safely into a private room, on a quiet floor, without anyone questioning why her _brother_ neither looked nor sounded in any way related to the bleeding redhead he’d effectively carried through the doors. Clint had even managed to snag a few heavier sedatives to make sure she actually stayed under. Drug-induced sleep was better than nothing, after all. Given that she’d been awake since the morning of karaoke night, and discounting the four she _might_ have gotten on the plane, Natasha had been on for sixty-one hours; she could stand to get some rest.

Clint was mostly hung up on being the one on _this_ side of the bed-rails. Usually, it was him in the hospital bed, and – if the dosages were right and the food wasn’t garbage – he honestly couldn’t give two fucks about it, but this was ‘Tasha. The last time she’d been hurt enough to need to be under, they’d all been together as a team. The time before, he and Phil had had each other to lean on, but Clint was on his own this time and he- Well, he wanted _Steve_ here.

Not to _do_ anything just… just to be here. _With him._

Clint slid his phone out of his pocket. His personal one was still locked up back at the New York office; this was the standard, nigh-indestructible field issue phone. He stared at the screen, eyes tracing the familiar SHIELD logo; it was a little past five o’clock, just after twenty-three hundred back home. Steve might still be awake, but… He put the phone away, settling back into the hospital chair, and closed his eyes on the slowly encroaching dawn.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Steve had been trying, but he had given up. There wasn’t any point to it anymore. He’d admitted it that first moment he opened his eyes on Tuesday morning, sprawled across the king-sized bed that wasn’t his, feeling the dog kick into his kidneys as he rolled over. Steve didn’t like Clint.

He didn’t like that Clint never seemed awake before ten – even if he could get halfway to kicking Steve’s ass just to get at the coffee – or that Clint always made sure to put fresh grounds in the machine before he went to sleep. He didn’t like the way Clint mumbled and hummed to himself when his aids were out. Steve didn’t like how his roommate flipped pancakes straight onto the plate; or how he used the thin strip of moulding between the living room windows for target practice; or how, if Steve was in bed, Clint would unfailingly carry Lucky up and down the stairs, no matter the hour, and heedless of how it made the poor fifth riser squeak.

Steve Rogers didn’t _like_ Clint Barton.

It was an overwhelming truth. It felt like an escape, like releasing a breath he’d been holding past the point of pain; like crawling through the rubble and soot of a blown out building, seeing that one search lamp flickering at the edge of the ashes, finally knowing rescue had come. Steve Rogers didn’t _like_ Clint Barton, and he didn’t _want_ to be his _roommate_ anymore.

All of the things that had come from sharing the apartment with Clint had woven into his routine, his new normal. The apartment wasn’t the same without them; they were what he found endearing, adorable.

He missed those little quirks.

He loved the man that had them.

Steve Rogers didn’t _like_ Clint Barton. He _loved_ him. No matter how overwhelming and terrifying and confusing it was, it was true, and he needed to just buckle down and say it.

“Fuck.”

Or not.

Steve turned over, staring past the dog to the early pre-dawn sky beyond the small bedroom window. Lucky winked his eye open, licked over Steve’s face, and butted up under his arm before going back to sleep.

Steve rolled out of bed. He had to pee, anyway. He flicked on the light, confused a moment at the face in the glass. _Right._ Not a window, not a stranger; just himself sporting the beard that he didn’t need to keep anymore. Steve blinked back at his reflection, automatically scrubbing at the hair that didn’t seem to belong on his face. He’d shave it. Not yet, but soon. When Clint got back. Steve tugged at the bottom of his t-shirt; Clint’s not his, actually, purposefully dug out of the hamper, black letters looping _I Purple Hearts_ across his chest.

He needed to do the laundry. He needed to wash the sheets, too, or at least remake Clint’s bed like he had before. Steve sighed. What he needed was to stop doing _this_ – slipping into Clint’s room when the man was gone and he couldn’t sleep, or borrowing his shirts to wear around the apartment. It was comforting, but not healthy, the little reassurances overwhelmed by the guilt that followed – he needed to do something beyond stealing Clint’s clothes, mooning over him behind his back, sleeping in his god-damned bed, and hoping the guy would notice.

“Fuckin’, punk.”

Pep talks were so much easier to give when he meant them for other people.

Steve finished his business and debated curling back up in bed with Lucky, just for a few more minutes. It wasn’t even four, yet. He had nowhere to be, unless things had gotten worse, and Clint or Nat needed more backup. Steve didn’t want to think about that right now.

He left the bathroom, banging his shin into the door as it swung back on him, and slid back under the comforter in Clint’s room. Lucky wormed in against Steve’s back in his doggy sprawl across the mattress, a warm ball of fur and comfort, and Steve closed his eyes. His phone started ringing just about the time he’d managed to reclaim a reasonable amount of bed from the dog.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah… how about that, hmm? I know the summary for this chapter isn’t the best, but… _oops?_ And this isn’t even the _Pining_ chapter… (Hahhah, I’m the epitome of _sorry-not-sorry_ over that.)
> 
> If you’re not sure about some of the items on Maria’s list, it included ammunition for a .38 special (revolver), maxi pads, and gun oil/gun cleaner (that kinda smells like bananas, actually), along with some usual food stuffs. Just important things everyone needs, and should totally have at all times.
> 
> I thought Clint might take a two-seater small and fast plane, hence Phil saying: "It’s the coupe." There is only space for two. Poor Phil has to wait this time.
> 
> Lots of code in this chapter. If you’ve read any of my other spy-related fics, you’ll know it’s not gibberish.(Or, at least, it’s _thoughtful_ gibberish.) The translation is below. It’s a very basic little number cypher, but it’s for emergencies, anyway, and it shows up in one chapter, so it’s more straightforward than some of the codes you might see in my other fics involving Strike Team Delta goings on.
> 
>  _911 & 112:_ The most common emergency services numbers for any service.  
>  _999:_ Number for emergency services in many countries.  
>  _103:_ Number specifically for ambulance services (EU and parts of US).  
>  _033:_ 33 is the international dialing country code for France. 0 was added to make it a three digit code.  
>  _000:_ Emergency services number in very few countries, here used as an indicator of a pause or stop.  
>  _641:_ US area code for Carbon, Iowa; Clint’s numerical call sign.  
>  _411:_ Code in the US for dialing phone information services.  
>  _495:_ Russian area code for Moscow; Natasha’s numerical call sign.  
>  _30189:_ French area code for Nîmes (and nearby area). 0 was added to make it two three digit codes.  
>  _382:_ Phone digit to letter code for ETA (Estimated Time of Arrival).  
>  _688:_ Phone digit to letter code for OUT (ending communication).
> 
> Now, the coded messages may be a little confusing because of how simple the code being turned into phrases is, but here goes:  
> [ _999 103 000 033 000 641_ ]: Emergency, medical emergency, in France, attention Hawkeye.  
> [ _411 000 495_ ]: Requesting information from Black Widow.  
> [ _411 000 030 189 000 641_ ]: Information, within area code 30189 (in France), attention Hawkeye.  
> [ _411 382_ ]: Requesting information on ETA.  
> [ _411 382_ _005_ ]: Information, ETA is five hours from now (005).  
> [ _687 641_ ]: Hawkeye out.  
> [ _688_ _495_ ]: Black Widow out.
> 
> Took some liberties with that flight time because I am sure SHIELD can get Clint there faster than commercial service.


	13. Clint/Natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family is different; Natasha and Clint are, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I know it's slashed, I'm going platonic with this square: I love me some SpySibs!

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

“You don’t have to keep nursemaiding me. I can get around perfectly well on my own.”

Clint grinned, pushing Natasha’s seat in, setting her crutch against the edge of the table. “I know that, but this helps, okay?”

“Mm. You and your need to _help_.” Natasha leaned over from the other side of the table, tapping the end of his nose with her finger. “I believe I found your last _helpful_ gift before I left…”

“I’m sorry, Nat.” The buttermilk would have been in her refrigerator for almost a month, so Clint knew it had probably reeked. He frowned apologetically back at her. “I thought I got all of those.”

She raised her eyebrows and took a sip of her coffee. “ _You_ planned it.”

“You work well together, and there was no guarantee that another interested guy wouldn’t have been an enemy agent.” It wasn’t a question, but Clint answered, anyway. “Sam’s one of the few guys I’d trust at your back that’s not me or Phil, ‘Tasha.”

“True…” Natasha leaned back into her chair and considered him as he answered. A slow smile spread across her face, even reaching her eyes as she met his gaze.

Their sandwiches arrived, along with Natasha’s too sweet chocolate cake, and they passed a few moments in silence. Clint really did love coming back to this little place. It was too bad they only got to visit when they passed through Caissargues. Maybe he could ask, and they could come back some time, maybe all four of them, and- No, now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. He wasn’t supposed to have even made that call, anyway, and he’d already tossed one phone, so no. Now was the time to hang out in a swanky café with his best friend, eating food that was going on SHIELD’s tab.

“How goes getting someone to watch yours, Clint?”

Or maybe now _was_ the time to think about _that_. Clint set his sandwich back on the plate, having abruptly lost his appetite. He propped his elbows on the table, resting his forehead on his hands. “Nat, I don’t even know what to do anymore.”

“Steve spends half the time not looking at me, and the other half staring like he’s starving and I’m made out of meat-” Clint was interrupted by a soft chuckle from across the table. “Why are you laughing?”

“You’re a loveless matchmaker, Clint. It’s a little funny.” He was never sure why, but it always seemed that, even if she had no real accent when she was speaking, Natasha _laughed_ in Russian. She reached across the table and patted his cheek gently. “You should just tell him.”

“I was going to maybe see about saying something at the game, but-” Clint knew immediately that he shouldn’t have brought that up; Natasha’s whole face closed off for a moment. It was unsettling, seeing her shut down the same way she used to, back when any mistake equated with pain. Clint reached across the table and squeezed her hand in his. “Family comes first, and I will admit to fucking this thing with Steve up more than enough all on my own, way before you decided to make life interesting and get yourself shot.”

“I _am_ sorry, Clint.”

“Don’t be, ‘Tasha… Besides, by all rights, it’s probably a pipe dream, anyway. I mean you know I’m not exactly…” Clint floundered, looking for the right words. It was difficult. He knew he wasn’t winning the worst person of the year award any time soon, but compared to Steve, well… He honestly wasn’t sure if he measured up. Not because of the height difference, and only partially because of their pasts, but still. “I’m just trying to enjoy what I’ve got before it goes the way of one of Tony’s prototypes and blows up in my face. That’s all.”

Natasha walked her chair closer to his side of the café table, hitching it slowly since she was partially down a leg for the moment. “You’re selling yourself short, while simultaneously over-estimating Steve.”

“Really? Then explain, Oh Dame of Deadly Thighs.” He propped up his face on one hand, tipping his chin at her.

“It’s not nice to tease the injured.” In a move that was both childish and, truly, a little frightening, Natasha brought her hand in a strike straight to his temple before shifting at the last second to flick his ear.

Clint stuck out his tongue and gently pushed her hand away. “You would smother me with your napkin if I went easy on you.”

“Maybe… I just don’t think you realize how intimidating this might be for him.” Natasha poked his cheek with a frustrated, indulgent huff. “Steve went from scrawny to solid to frozen in less than two years. You can’t expect him to be good at this. He’s probably still thinking like he was before the war.”

“Okay…” Clint wasn’t exactly sure where his partner was going with all of this. “And that means…?”

“It means that he probably has the dating _experience_ of the scrawny teenager he used to look like, and is used to having the _appeal_ of the same.” She leaned in, again, dropping her voice past her usual quiet tone, almost to mission whisper levels. “I doubt Steve had time to acquire very much first-hand knowledge of anything _romantic_ – let alone _carnal_ – and _that_ probably came from whatever the pre-war equivalent of woods porn was.”

“Pretty sure it was still woods porn, Nat; that shit’s eternal. And, really, me? _Me?_ Deaf, hitting middle age, busted-ass me? How is any of _me_ scary?” Clint matched her tone and whispered back to her over their coffee. “If anything, my dating record should make him _scared_ , but only because I’m not all that great an option.”

“Clint. You’re family, and I love you…” Natasha cupped her hand against the side of his face, voice radiating disappointment. “… but you’re being an idiot. This is Steve you’re talking about.”

“Exactly. That’s the problem.” Clint leaned away from Nat’s hand, gaze focused over her shoulder on a fluttering mass of pigeons. He slid his seat back, until he could rest his arms on his knees. “He’s Steve. He paints and goes to museums and always takes back his library books on time. He gets invited to rub elbows with diplomats and give inspiring speeches to grade-schoolers. He’s _Captain America,_ Nat.”

“I’m an ex-con, ex-carney who got half his furniture – and his _dog_ – off the side of the road and-” Clint was wholly unprepared to catch a wadded up napkin to the face. Especially from Natasha, in public, where anyone might clearly see her acting so blatantly less than absolutely decorous. Clint had to physically concentrate to stop gawking and close his mouth.

Nat, seeing an advantage, pounced on his stunned silence as an opportunity to make herself heard. “You’re also the _Amazing_ Hawkeye, a founding member of the Avengers, and the only SHIELD Agent to both survive _and_ turn a Red Room operative. _Ever…_ ”

She let that hang in the air, straightening up to her full height; despite being so much shorter than Clint, Natasha was an expert at the art of looming upwards. “Not to mention that you’ve also _been_ Captain America. You’re effectively arguing that one Captain America is too good to date another one, and _that_ argument doesn’t knock at all. _Especially_ considering you set me up with Sam…”

“‘Tasha, that is not even remotely the same thing.”

“I fail to see why not.” Natasha kept her voice even, with just the barest judgmental clip. “I understand that you’re frightened, but that doesn’t mean you should be sabotaging your own chances.”

Clint chewed his bottom lip. “I don’t even know that this is gonna last…”

“It already has.” At his questioning head tilt, she elaborated. “Counting breaks as breakups, how long was your longest continuous relationship in the last decade?”

“Uh…” That was a lot to go through. The number of people had been one Clint could have gotten to fairly quickly, but tracking back through multi-one-night-stands, breakups, pauses, and one spectacular on-again-off-again that had seen him punted twice out of a window… “About five months?”

“Mmhmm, Steve moved in with you in January, right?” By her tone, Clint knew Natasha was laying some sort of trap for him, though he couldn’t guess what for. With her chin resting on the backs of her hands, face even with his, she asked, “What month is it now?”

It _had_ been September when he got here, but that had been almost a week ago at this point; something which Natasha clearly knew, and of which Clint hardly needed to remind her. “October.”

“Now, humour me, but how many months would that be? January to October?”

“Well. One… Two… Thre-” Clint took his time counting on his fingers, drawing it out into more of a show than an action, until the very pointed toe on the shoe of the foot Natasha _could_ kick with jammed itself into his shin.“Nine.”

“Correct. You and Steve have been living together, while still maintaining a fully productive and professional work relationship, for nine months, in spite of all the obvious _tension.”_ Grinning smugly, Natasha relaxed back down into her chair with a slight wince. “You’re practically already married.”

“No,” Clint had been married. Granted, it had been four weeks, it had mostly been for a mission, and he wasn’t sure whether he or Bobbi that had been crazier to say yes. The only other comparisons he had were his parents – a prime example of what not to do – and the few families unfortunate enough to get saddled with him when he was in the system. Whatever he had with Steve was nothing like any of that, though.“No, no, we’re not.”

“Do you know how he takes his coffee?”

 _Like a heathen, but I don’t mind._ Clint barely considered it coffee, once Steve was done defiling it with everything _except_ actual coffee. Still, he knew _exactly_ how his roommate destroyed that perfect brew every morning. “Yeah; four creams, five sugars.”

“What about which side he sleeps on?”

“Right side; left arm tucked in, right arm under his head, back against the wall.”

“Have you seen him in the shower?”

That was not a question Clint should have been able to answer with _yes;_ he liked Steve, maybe was more than a little infatuated with him, but he had never set out to creep on the guy in the bathroom. It was only that the door never _had_ locked properly, and, sometimes, when it swung open and didn’t immediately smack somebody in the knees, there was enough of a gap for Lucky to squeeze through. Which he had done. Several times. Often enough that, on numerous occasions Clint – as the person in the apartment not currently wet and trying to get clean – wound up having to wrangle the dog out of there before he jumped into the shower. Or, on a few occasions, after Lucky was already partially in the tub. Clint had tried not to look, of course, but when Steve Rogers peeked around the curtain, startled and dripping water everywhere, well… A man took notice. “Not on purpose?”

“I see…” Natasha’s voice spoke volumes – _tomes_ – as a self-satisfied smirk lifted her cheeks.

“You know that door is busted; I was getting Lucky out of the bathroom, and, I mean… Well, it’s not like _you’ve_ never seen me in the shower. Or the other way around.” With the state of her current injuries, it had only been a few hours since Clint last had to literally _bathe_ her. “So that still doesn’t prove anything. Sometimes friends just see things, that’s all.”

“Family doesn’t count.” Natasha waved her hand to the side, in a gesture that, from anyone else, might have looked dismissive as she continued. “You and I share an unconventional friendship.”

Clint knew better, mostly because she was right. He and Tasha were family, in every known sense of the word, and a few that probably hadn’t been considered yet. It was wonderful having someone he could trust so absolutely, but sometimes it sucked to have someone that could drill straight through all his layers of protective bravado and bullshit. Their relationship made it damn near impossible for Clint to sidestep Natasha, despite his best efforts. “Well, maybe that’s what Steve wants, too.”

Natasha laid her hand on the back of his. “Is that what you want, Clint?”

“I…” His partner was so close, her question was so direct, that it caught Clint off guard. He was used to Nat being up in his space – they were _close_ in too many senses, sometimes – but having her literally right in front of his face, looking genuinely concerned – and with him not even _bleeding_ – made Clint edgy. Deep feelings talk did that generally, and that was without bringing the person who knew him best into the mix. It put Clint in a position where he had to give an honest answer, even if he did feel like he was choking on nails when he said it. “No. It isn’t.”

Natasha smiled warmly, both cheeks pulling up evenly in a genuine smile for once, scrunching her eyes. She closed the gap between them, wrapping him in a hug as she tucked her chin up onto Clint’s shoulder. He hugged her back, mindful of her injuries, fighting the sudden urge to scrub at his eyes. Natasha was circumspect as she dropped her napkin into his hand, looking off over his shoulder until his sniffing stopped.

Clint reached down, patting Nat’s uninjured leg, grateful, if still at a bit of a loss. “Thanks, Widow.”

“Anytime, Hawkeye. I only like seeing you miserable when it’s funny. Just tell Steve when we get back.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” Clint’s voice still felt thick and unsteady as he answered her, and almost like his tongue was too big for his mouth _“‘Hey, Steve, I like making you breakfast and seeing your art on my walls, and I know you’ve always got my six, so let me kiss your hot, stupid-perfect face?’”_

He scoffed, tossing the wadded up napkin back onto the table. “Yeah, that'll go over _so_ well.”

“It actually might. Things can’t keep going like _this.”_ Natasha underscored her point by motioning to where Clint sat; sniffling, red-faced, and – if he was willing to admit it – half-way to truly miserable. She grasped at his hand, giving his fingers a light squeeze. “The very least you could do is not terrorize the poor man… I’ve seen you flirt; I’ve seen Steve accidentally punch through a wall. I’m justifiably concerned for both of you at this point.”

“I’m trying, ‘Tasha…” He squeezed back, then gently pushed her hand away. Clint really had been – still was being – as unsubtle as he comfortably could. He had thought it might be working, but – beyond a few brief moments of awkward closeness – Steve had almost seemed more distant before Clint had left. Or, if not distant, edgy; even when Clint had toned back on the verbal innuendo, Steve had been twitchy, jumpy whenever Clint was in the room with him.

“Well, try harder.” In the span of a few seconds, Natasha had shifted, gone from concerned friend to mission-ready agent. Still, there was a warmth to her eyes that belied her words. “I need my partner at one-hundred percent the next time I decide things need to be interesting.”

“Yeah.” Clint stood, bending to give her a real hug, careful not to bump against braced leg.

Natasha pulled him close, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him down until he was bent double, head resting on her shoulder. “You’ll be home soon.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> •°☆°• 
> 
> _Home is where your Steve stays._
> 
> •°☆°• 
> 
> Added a tiny dash of bad translation slang into the fic – blink and you might miss it – because of course it would have to be Natasha that said it. 


	14. Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, when two people get too close, the distance between wanting and having only grows wider. Clint and Steve both have to learn that the hard way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. The antepenultimate (third to last; thanks decorcan!) chapter is here. It’s _very_ long. It’s _**over 9000…**_ words of _pining_. It ends on a bit (maybe a lot?) of a cliffhanger. Did I mention it’s long? I wrote too much, it’s a bit of an emotional rollercoaster, and it’s a lot… of _**pining**_ **.** I took that prompt very seriously. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Massive thanks to Rosie, Luna, Anna, and Nora for their encouragement, feedback, patience, and wrangling of my more insane urges. (Shudder to think on what might have happened were I left wholly untethered.) I couldn’t have gotten this far (torturing these two with feels and making you all crazy) without your help.

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

Clint stared at the doorknob with a resolute frown. He patted his pockets, but came up empty. His keys weren’t in them; they were back at the office, in the same locker he’d yanked his phone from an hour ago, once he’d gotten Nat settled. At least he had _that_. Clint had also seen Steve’s motorcycle parked in the bike-port, so his roommate was home. Still, Clint almost wished he could go back to four days ago; to the hospital and the waiting, so he wouldn’t have to do this.

He’d cancelled, left the country, and had only contacted Steve once the whole time; a brief, bare-minute call that he hadn’t thought would be answered. Clint had been unable to use his field phone for anything except updates and emergencies, and he could only safely call so many times before the risk of someone back-tracing their location outweighed the personal benefit of hearing Steve’s voice. Added to that, he hadn’t wanted to leave ‘Tasha alone when she was fully under. It had been last Tuesday, mid-morning in Nîmes and early before New York’s dawn, when Nat had groggily shooed him off at meal time, and he’d managed to drag himself from her bedside, out into the autumn chill.

A quick walk to a corner shop, an international calling card and a disposable phone, and Clint had at least been able to _try_ getting through. He hadn’t expected Steve to answer, had almost fussed at him for doing so – who the fuck answered unknown calls from France before four in the morning – but then Steve had started talking – “ _How’s the family?”_ – and something had smashed all of Clint’s insides up to crush his lungs.

Clint had coughed under that pressure, cleared his throat and squeaked out a soft, “ _We’re good;”_ rasped a hasty, “ _I’m sorry,”_ only to get a hollow chuckle, the kind that he somehow knew meant Steve was shaking his head with one brow up in disapproval. His roommate had rebutted him verbally, too – _“Don’t be, it’s the job.”_ – and Clint had nodded automatically, mumbled an affirmative, said he needed to go. Steve had sounded so far off when he’d said goodbye.

Clint sighed. Everyone was alive, mostly unharmed – _mostly_ – and safely home. Clint had even managed to get Natasha to take something before she wrapped herself in a fluffy robe and cuddled down with Liho; a success if there ever was one. At least he was back now, even if it was late enough at night to be well into the morning. He debated knocking, on the off-chance that his roommate would be up, but decided not to. At quarter to one, there was a very real chance Steve might just stay awake. He had done it before, and one am was a little too early, even for him, even if Clint did sort of like the way Steve pouted when he got sleep-cranky. He’d already had to ditch the guy when he left; no point pissing him off further.

Setting his bag on the floor, Clint dug to the bottom for his lock-picks; they would suffice to get him inside without fucking up yet _another_ one of the doors in the apartment. He might have been exhausted from the jet-lag, and too many days with too little (read: _without_ )sleep, but breaking and entering were some of his best-practiced skills. He was able to slide into the familiar habit and lose himself for a moment in the rhythmic push and click of his tools.

Clint almost missed the sounds of thudding paws skittering across the hardwood, though he jumped when something slammed into the door with a hard _whud!_ and made the locks rattle. He was still on his knees, picks in hand, when the door swung inward, and Clint was greeted by a drooling faceful of overexcited blond mutt, and drool-worthy eyeful of angry blond roommate.

Clad in boxer briefs and the shield, Steve glared down at him for a breath before finally recognizing that Clint wasn’t actually that much of a threat.

“Sorry.” It was hard to talk when Lucky was trying to shove his entire face straight into Clint’s mouth. “I forgot my keys.”

“It’s… it's fine, Clint.” Steve unclenched his hand, reaching to help haul him off of the floor. “I could have hurt you.”

“Let’s be honest Steve; you could have _killed_ me, but that applies to most of the team, so…” The severity of Steve’s brows slamming down like they did hit his brain just about the same time Clint realized he’d said that out loud. _Shit_. “Not that you would, but, I mean… I’m glad you were looking after the place, and Lucky.”

Steve nodded slowly, “Yeah,” and stepped back into the apartment. “Welcome back.”

Snatching his bag back up, Clint followed. “Thanks”

Lucky bolted back up the stairs – tripping the entire way to the bedrooms – but Steve stopped in the kitchen. He tilted his head toward the coffee pot, thumb hovering over the _ON_ button, and looked back at Clint.

“Better not. Sorry.” As good as coffee he didn’t have to make might _sound_ , Clint knew he’d be better off actually going to bed this morning. He struggled not to lean into the chair as he yawned, eyes closing as he hunched further in on himself. “Haven’t seen the right side of a bed since I left.”

“You didn’t sleep?”

“Not the whole time. I mean, I slept a little. Jus-ju-” His diaphragm stalled his words, again. Clint yawned, his breath hitched, and he yawned a second time. Now that he was home, his body seemed to be mutinying, trying to force him to give it the rest he’d been denying it all week. Clint shook his head, hand resting on the dining chair. “Just spent the past fifty or so mostly awake…”

One day, Stark would figure out how to distill and bottle Steve’s disapproval.

“I mean, I took a few chair naps?” Clint looked away from him with a shrug. “It was a family thing, ya know?”

“Yeah.” Despite still looking at Clint like he was the epitome of disappointment, Steve’s words were calm. “How’s Natasha doing?”

“Stubborn.” And was that ever the truth. As much as Nat – _and Steve, Tony, Sam, Bruce that one time…_ – might complain about what a terrible patient Clint could be, at least he had the sense to stay put when he was injured. Mostly. Alright, Clint could admit that he was a terrible patient, and – importantly – if _he_ thought an injury required hospitalization, it absolutely did. But, of course – of _fucking_ course – Clint had been stuck trying to explain that to the one person he regularly let out stubborn him. Natasha hadn’t done herself any favours by trying to kneecap him with her crutch, either. “She refused to stay more than two nights in the hospital, so I was trying to keep her stable in a _hotel.”_

“Guess stubborn runs in the family.” Steve’s smile was dozy and warm as he shook his head. “I’m sure she’ll be fine now that she’s back home.”

“Nat lives alone.” _I have you_. The apartment was dark aside from the little light over the sink; Steve couldn’t see him blushing. “Liho can’t patch her up if something happens.”

“Well, you won’t be able to either if you pass out standing up.” Steve nodded to where Clint had braced both his hands against the table, fighting to stay upright. “Long way to the floor.”

“You think you’re funny.”

“Only funny lookin.’” Straightening up from his lean against the counter, Steve tipped his head toward the stairs. “Yeah; you should go to bed, Clint.”

“I don’t have to.” Now that they were here, quietly chatting in the kitchen, Clint didn’t _want_ to go to bed. Sleeping meant less time with Steve; this quiet, intimate comfort would be over the minute his feet hit those stairs. And, beyond that, if Steve was awake _anyway_ , Clint wanted to spend time being awake _with_ him. “I could probably stand to eat, and I owe you a pizza, right? You said you picked a place.”

“Clint…” He needed to stop disappointing his roommate, but Clint wasn’t firing on enough cylinders to know what was wrong with what he’d just said.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. With a resolute grimace, he reached for Clint’s shoulders, turning him so that he faced toward the stairs as Steve gave him a bit of a shove. “You need to sleep. _I_ need sleep. Besides, Rig’s closed at midnight, and neither of us is really dressed for heading out into public.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” Clint had started scooting across the floor; he picked up his pace enough to lessen the pressure of Steve’s hands, but not pull away, entirely. Mounting the stairs, he turned to look back over his shoulder, still walking as he spoke. “I’ll sleep, okay, but listen, Steve, I _am_ sorry about last Monday.”

It was harder to tell in the dark, but Clint was pretty sure Steve had rolled his eyes.

“Look, yeah, I know, it’s the job, but I still feel bad about making you miss the game.” _And missing going with you._ Having made it to his own room, Clint stepped aside to let Steve walk past him to the solar. As he did, Clint couldn’t stop himself patting Steve’s bearded cheek. “Especially after you grew all of that.”

Steve’s eyes cut to his hand, his mouth pulled sideways into a frown even as Clint yanked his hand back. “It’s…” Steve’s frown softened as he stepped around where Lucky sat in the doorway, mouth curling up just on one side before Steve turned away, slipping back into his own room. “It’s okay, Clint. Get some rest.”

There was a heavy tension in the Steve’s movement, enough that Clint reached to tap him on the shoulder, still trying to muddle his way to ending the night – the _morning_ – on a less awkward note. “I can be up for lunch?”

“After staying awake for five days?” It was an exasperated smile, but – _hey_ – at least Steve was smiling, right? Steve made a shooing motion with his hands, aimed right at Clint’s bed. “You’d probably fall asleep in the fucking pizza, Clint. Go to be-” Caught off guard by his own yawn, Steve was cut off mid-lecture, blinking as he started back up. “-bed and _sleep_.”

“Okay…” Clint settled on the foot of his bed, working off his boots. “G’night, Steve.”

“Good night. Get some rest.”

Clint heard the door close and latch as he was halfway out of his shirt. He undressed in what Sam sometimes called a fireman’s pile; pants, shorts, and socks all shucked straight down, easy to step back into the next morning, shirt dropped nearby. Clint dug out a pair of sleep pants, tugging them up until they sat high enough on his hips that they didn’t risk falling down, and pulled back the sheets on his bed.

It took a while, longer than normal since the sheets were tucked in so tightly. Clint didn’t _usually_ do more than fling the covers up and make sure the pillows were on the bed instead of the floor. There was a name for that, the weird square fold he could see in the sheet when he lifted the edge of his comforter, but it escaped him right now. It was important – _this was important_ – but Clint would have to think about it in the morning. Well, _later_ in the morning. That’s when Clint would think about it. When he wasn’t fumbling his aids onto the plywood tabletop and smashing face first down into his pillow; when he wasn’t having to fight Lucky for some wiggle room.

That’s when he’d have time to figure out the sheets; and, also, why his pillow smelled so good, warm and musky.

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

Steve sat on the couch, book in hand, reading. Pretending to read. Holding a book in his lap and staring into the middle distance somewhere between the words and his nose. Trying to parse out what the hell had been happening for the last few days. Things had felt different since Clint got back. Not just with Steve – he sure as shit _felt_ different, now that he had put a name to what he was actually feeling – but, well…

Since he’d returned, Clint had seemed somewhat detached; distant, even now, when he stood only a few yards away, chugging his first cup of coffee. Not colder – in fact, Clint had been _exceptionally_ considerate – and still friendly. _Just_ friendly. That was all.

Clint wasn’t barging into his room unannounced all that often anymore. Much of the joking – the _teasing_ – had toned down. It was almost like it had been at the beginning, back when Steve had first moved in, before they’d gotten so… _close_. But, again, _almost._ Steve would still feel those smile-crinkled eyes following him when they were both together at home. The casual touches as they moved around each other in the apartment – shoulders or hips brushing when they passed too close, knees knocking under the table – were still too frequent _not_ to have been partially purposeful.

Steve shook his head, turning the page of his book out of habit; he hadn’t actually read anything since Clint had come down. He needed to get a handle on himself, to figure out how to broach this subject with his roommate. He wasn’t going to be able to keep a lid on this forever. Either he was going to lose it, or Steve Rogers was going to die.

Not in battle, which would have been the easy way, since he’d already survived it once. No; he was going to die from the constant maelstrom of lust, longing, and love-induced panic that had come to define his current existence. He was going to tip over the breaking point upon which he’d been perched these past months, and Steve Rogers was going to die. And when he did, when he _snapped,_ he was probably going straight to hell, go right past heck, do not collect your wings, haich-ee-double-hockey-sticks, _HELL!_ for ruining one of the best friendships he’d ever had.

Or maybe he was already there. Maybe Steve was already dead, and hell wasn’t that dark, burning place he’d always heard about as a kid on Sundays.

Maybe hell was spending days seeing the play of muscle across Clint’s back as he practiced without being allowed to touch him. Catching a whiff of his aftershave without being able to press in against his neck and taste the pulse beneath. Hearing Clint humming to himself without knowing the sound of his moans. Following those calloused fingers as Clint worked – assembling arrows, or making breakfast, or petting the dog – and wondering how they’d feel against his own skin.

Maybe hell was that sense that he was slowly going mad, that this was all some sort of strange mis-recognition of signals or – _worse_ – some twisted joke in the long series that made up his life to this point; another jab from a universe that seemed fairly bent on confounding his efforts at sanity, let alone happiness.

Maybe hell was knowing that he _wasn’t_ crazy, that Clint truly wasn’t acting _normal_ , even by the off-kilter standard Steve had picked up on over the past nine months, and having no idea what – _if anything!_ – that meant. Not having a clue how to read his roommate’s casual touches and playful endearments when juxtaposed against his novel silences and considerate, almost deferential, distance. Maybe hell was having no sense of whether they were signs of real romantic sentiment or only Clint’s rather affectionate default actions; or, worst of all, signs there relationship was deteriorating, that something _else_ had changed when Clint came back.

Or maybe hell was Clint – roommate, train wreck, wet dream on two left feet – Barton flopping next to him on the couch in nothing but boxers and a mismatched pair of socks to eat cereal straight from the box.

Maybe Steve’s hell was somewhere he’d sent himself, someplace willed into being the minute Steve had thought sharing a roof with someone as captivating, as _overwhelming_ , as Clint Barton was anything close to a good idea.

“Smedes?” The man pervading his thoughts was talking to him, scooting to sit on the middle cushion of the couch. The aforementioned box of cereal, held in strong hands attached to those arms that were a sin in themselves, was being waved under his nose. “You hungry?”

Steve _was_. Starving. Parched, and somehow drowning, unable to do anything except try to remain cogent and quiet, and _not_ scare the shit out of the guy who’d been nice enough to offer his home as Steve’s refuge for so many months.

How did people _do_ this? And why couldn’t Steve just get up the nerve to ask?! Either Clint would say _no,_ and he’d have to move out, hide in the tower eating all of Pepper’s ice cream for a few days, and then permanently relocate to the place upstate, or… _Or_ Clint might say _yes,_ and maybe end this slow torture.

“You need to eat, Steve.” Clint was talking, again; concerned, clearly unaware that Steve’s present condition was largely _his_ fault. “Look I know it’s junk, but I’m not putting on real pants to go get oatmeal and we’re out of buttermilk for pancakes. C’mon, they’re peanut butter? Organic and everything…”

The cereal box shook, again. Steve felt Clint leaning in closer, watched as his roommate lifted a handful of the peanut butter puffs in front of Steve’s face even as he stage-whispered. “SHIELD Command to Captain America?” Clint stilled his hand right in front of Steve’s mouth with a sigh. “Seriously, Steve, is your blood sugar bottoming out or something?”

Fine. _Fine!_ If Clint was going to keep at it, keep pushing his _friendly_ way into Steve’s life without even _noticing_ him, then Steve could push _right_ back.

Steve dropped the long-ignored book into his lap and grasped his roommate’s wrist, holding it in place while deliberately staring at Clint, aiming for perturbed. Steve leaned down, eating a mouthful of cereal right out of his hand, tongue swiping over the man’s palm as Clint momentarily froze.

His tactic immediately backfired, though for two very different reasons: Steve’s mind began wondering if the rest of Clint’s skin had the same salty-metallic tang, or if it was just his hands; while Clint squeaked, and reflexively jerked both arms upward, flinging the rest of the cereal in his hand, along with the box, right into Steve’s face with a startled yelp. The combination of his roommate’s action and own Steve’s frozen inaction sent Steve tumbling to the floor, and his grip on Clint’s wrist meant he pulled his roommate along with him.

Steve landed – _hard!_ – on his back with Clint half straddled over him, _too close_ all at once. His roommate was gawping down at him, lips parted, grey-blue eyes wide. Clint was braced on his arms, but their legs were tangled; Clint’s knee pressing between Steve’s thighs and doing nothing to help the situation. There was trepidation in his voice as he spoke, barely more than a murmur. “Um… Steve?”

He couldn’t think.

Clint was right there. Right _there_ , arched over Steve and looking straight at him, near enough to touch – _already touching him!_ – leaning closer, head angling to one side in confusion? Confusion. Had to be; there was no other reason for Clint’s slow, nervous head tilt and too fast blinking. “Steve?”

He panicked. There wasn’t any way to sugar coat his reaction. Steve Rogers fucking panicked, bolting upright, vision blinking white for a moment as his skull slammed up into Clint’s with a _crack!_ that echoed in his ears.

“Fuck!” Clint recoiled, flailing back in the opposite direction, crushing the cereal box as he landed.

“Sorry!” Steve was already scrambling up off the floor, tripping over his book, stepping on sugary puffs as he snatched up his keys. “You’re right; I’m hungry. I’m sorry!” He couldn’t slow the roll of his rambling, words vomiting out of his mouth as Steve tried desperately not to cry. “I’m going for a bagel! And buttermilk! I’ll take Lucky for a walk!”

“Steve, what the _fucking hell?!”_

“I’m sorry!” Steve effectively had the dog in his arms as he opened the door, snatching the leash as an afterthought. “I’ll be back! You want anything else?”

He didn’t give Clint enough time to actually answer, slamming the door behind him. Holding Lucky tightly to his chest, Steve ran.

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

Clint picked up his phone from the night stand. _No new messages_. He sighed and opened his chat with Steve, anyway.

**•°☆°•**

_**Tuesday** _

**HawkGuy __** __  
[ _What the hell just happened Steve?_ ]  
[ _Where are you guys?_ ]  
[ _I know I pissed you off, but you literally left your shoes here._ ]  
[ _I’m sorry._ ]

[ _Steve, it’s been an hour, where are you?_ ]  
[ _Are you okay?_ ]

[ _Do you want someone to come get you?_ ]  
[ _Doesn’t have to be me._ ]

**•°☆°•**

Lucky pressed his nose up under Clint’s arm, huffing out a snorted doggy sigh, then pawed at his leg. Clint looked back at the dog over the screen, but didn’t move. Lucky whined, and, groaning, Clint sat up. “Yeah?”

The dog tumble-jumped off the foot of his bed, padding to the door beside the closet, paw scraping on the frame moulding as he whined into the empty room.

“I don’t know either.”

Not liking his answer, or maybe just as sick of being near Clint as Steve had been, Lucky padded into the solar. He curled up at the foot of the neatly made bed, rumpling the afghan as he settled, still eyeing Clint through the doorway. He’d gravitated to that same place since Kate had brought him back four days ago, ranting to Clint that Steve had just dropped the dog and run. Not surprising; Steve was good at that. Maybe Clint should have been better at chasing. He thumbed further down the conversation.

**•°☆°•**

_**Wednesday** _

**HawkGuy**  
[ _Just let somebody know you’re okay. Please?_ ]  
[ _Steve, just tell Sam or Tony you’re okay, alright? I’m trying not to freak anyone out, but they said they hadn’t heard from you._ ]  
[ _Steve, I’m supposed to run a training lesson this afternoon._ ]  
[ _I called in, but no one else with the right ordinance clearance can cover for me._ ]

[ _Class ran over. Emergency uptown, but I’ll be back soon._ ]

 **Steven G  
**[ _Dropped Lucky with Kate, since you were teaching. Mission._ ]

 **HawkGuy**  
[ _The shield is still behind the door. You’ll need it, right?_ ]  
[ _Kate just dropped off Lucky, but where are you?_ ]  
[ _I’m sorry._ ]

**•°☆°•**

“Don’t you disappear on me, too, boy.”

Lucky wagged his tail and closed his eye.

Clint debated actually getting up. It was after eleven; not that late for him. Well, not that late for him when he was _alone,_ something he hadn’t really been in almost a year. He should get up, make some coffee, and try to start the day. _That_ was a new routine. Well, _old_ , but not the one he’d so quickly gotten used to. Clint had made his own coffee for decades, but – in such a short while – he’d grown accustomed to finding it already waiting in the morning, along with a warm smile and a pair of soft blue eyes.

**•°☆°•**

**_Thursday_ **

**HawkGuy**  
[ _I know I fucked up, Steve._ ]  
[ _Please come home?_ ]

**•°☆°•**

**__**_Damn_ , but had he ever _fucked up._

He stood, not bothering to dress as he trudged down to the kitchen. Everything was just _off_ , now; it all felt hollowed out and lacking, or grated on his very last nerve. Clint skipped the fifth stair. The squeak had been cute when it let him know Steve was coming up or going down, but now it just pissed him off. He directed his glare at the spare shield, still sitting in the corner by the door, burnished vibranium dully reflecting light from the little kitchen bulb.

Clint flipped on the coffee maker, remembered he hadn’t gotten out of bed yesterday to change the grounds, considered shutting it off, but then decided to let it run, anyway. He was pretty much garbage, already; drinking a few cupfuls of swill was no less than he deserved. Clint reached up into the cabinet for a mug, clutching the first thing his fingers closed on. _Stupid sugar bowl!_ That wasn’t even supposed to _be_ in the fucking cabinet. It belonged on the table, next to the tablet open to today’s headlines, and the barely-still coffee, and-! Clint snatched out a mug and slammed it down beside the hissing coffee maker. 

Clint checked his phone one last time, then punched the power button, setting it screen-side down on the counter. He filled his mug with sludgy, stale coffee, gritting his teeth at the metallic taste and choking it down. He got a second cup, gulping it like penance. He knew he ought to eat something, but all he wanted was pancakes. Lucky had been dropped off with a carton of buttermilk; maybe he could make it through a few without crying. _Again._

The dog trotted down from upstairs, stumbling a little on the steps before leaning in against his leg.

Clint reached automatically to pet behind his ears and swallowed down another gulp of his poor excuse for morning coffee. He drifted, mind stumbling back in a daze over how the last few mornings – _good mornings_ – were supposed to have gone.

Clint would have slept in, but not so late, maybe only until nine because he probably would have gotten to sleep faster knowing Steve was out in the other room; and staying up too late would have risked waking him, anyway. The apartment would have already smelled like coffee, and there would be a steamy haze still drifting in the bathroom from his roommate’s morning shower, fogging up the mirror and smelling just like Steve’s shampoo, musky and warm. Clint would struggle his way out of the john and down the stairs, secure in the knowledge that – if he wasn’t actively needed somewhere – Steve would already be waiting for him.

Tablet in one hand as he drank his own unneeded coffee, Steve would be perched somewhere downstairs; often the table, sometimes curled up on the salvaged queen-anne chair by the window or perched on the window frame, itself. On a rare morning, he might swap out the khakis and button-up for paint streaked jeans and a fading t-shirt and, by this hour, he would have a fair amount of paint, or maybe charcoal, smudging up his hands, even his face if he’d been too focused on his art.

Regardless, Clint would smile, get his coffee, take Steve’s cereal bowl out of the sink and put it in the washer. Mug in hand, he would flop down as near to the other man as was reasonably acceptable. Or, sometimes, after a bad night, unreasonably close, just for comfort. Clint liked it best when they could be at the table together, so that he could spend the next half hour waking up, blinking over his mug at Steve in half profile, watching him mouth along with the words as he read to himself. The window wasn’t bad, either, with Steve silhouetted against the skyline if he was sitting on the windowsill, or adorably pretzeled up on himself if he’d tried to actually curl up in the high-backed chair.

Clint would get through his second cup of coffee and start making an _actual_ breakfast, one beyond the milk and cereal that were the extent of his roommate’s culinary skills. Wherever he might have been, Steve would drift back into the kitchen once he’d started, and they would chat. They were never deep conversations – those topics usually didn’t creep up on them in the daylight – just comfortable, easy talk; the new arrow Clint was working on, the novel street meat Steve had gambled against his cast-iron stomach. Sometimes Steve would help him with the prep, sometimes just hover close at hand so he could offer help if Clint asked, and it would be…

_Perfect._

Clint ran his hand across his face, scrubbing at his eyes, fingers running over his scalp before settling at the back of his neck. He couldn’t spend the whole morning in happy daydreams. He’d already pissed and put his ears in. He needed to head out; get clean, get dressed, and get going. Nothing to be gained from moping around all day. Even without an assignment, Clint could do a sweep of the surrounding blocks, get a few good deeds in without having to really interact with anyone he knew. At the very least, there had to be something around the building that needed fixing. Maybe he could start with the damn door-locks and stairs.

Lucky shifted against his leg, tail smacking into Clint’s calf as he trotted toward the door, and Clint looked up just in time to see the deadbolt turn. The front door swung open, and his breath caught in his throat. Clint blinked at the familiar shield, the circle-banded star, red and blue and burnished silver.

Two things happened at that moment. The shield dipped, revealing a head of long black hair pushed back by a lavender headband; and Kate Bishop screwed her eyes shut and yelled, loud enough that Clint could probably still have heard her perfectly with his aids _out._ “God damnit, Hawkey! Why are you _always_ naked?!”

Clint blurted out the first thing that came to mind, still clutching his mug like a security stuffie. “Why do _you_ have Cap’s shield?! Is he alright?”

“Steve’s fine, but – _damnit!_ – pants first, then answers. Please!” Kate closed the door behind her and turned around to set the real shield leaning against the spare, settling a few plastic bags beside it. With one hand half over her eyes and her head bent down, she fumbled her way into the kitchen, free hand out in front of her until she ran into the counter. Kate snagged a mug out of the cabinet as she grumbled. “Jeezus, I am so _sick_ of that! You need to save that for somebody who actually _wants_ to look, Clint.”

“Maybe you should learn to knock, _Bishop.”_ He crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter.

At the first sip of the not-coffee, Kate’s whole face scrunched up, but she drank it anyway. “Maybe _you_ should learn to dress yourself, _Barton.”_

“Kate,” Clint set his mug down, taking a step closer, pressing for an explanation for any of this. “What is going on?”

“I’m not talking to you while your junk is airing itself all around the kitchen.” Kate pushed a hand in his direction, pointedly not looking at Clint as she dumped the twice-brewed coffee down the sink. She pulled out the canister and a fresh filter. “Go put some pants on; I’ll make some _real_ coffee, and _then_ we can talk.”

When Kate turned away to fill the pot, Clint realized she really meant it. He stomped back up the stairs, grabbing the first pair of pants he could pull out of the laundry, and yanking them up over his hips. They weren’t even pants – they were _shorts_ – and they weren’t even _his_ , and Clint didn’t even fucking _care_ right now because his heart was knotted up remembering Steve in the stupid things, anyway. By the time he got back down, Kate had emptied out two of the bags and was putting something away inside his refrigerator. Two fresh cups of coffee were sitting on the dining table; one with only a dash of cream, one black.

“Okay; dressed.” Clint slid into the chair, eyeing his fellow Hawkeye with a huff. “Happy?”

“No; still traumatized,” Kate quipped back. She closed the refrigerator door and pulled out the final item from the last bag. Kate handed him a little cardboard box from Hermanowski’s, settling herself in the opposite chair. “This is for you.”

There was a double thick slice of carrot cake inside. Clint blinked up at her, but Kate just shrugged and handed him a fork.

“Figured you could use that.”

“Thanks.” Clint took a bite, realized he _still_ wasn’t all that up to eating, even this, and sighed down into his coffee. “What’s going on, Kate? What happened to Steve?”

“After he threw Lucky and that stupid carton at me and ran away? Nothing, other than some _severe_ cranio-rectal impaction.”

“What?!”

“He’s fine.” Kate reached for the fork, taking it from Clint's lax fingers and digging out a chunk of cake. She spoke around the mouthful, grumbling at him over the table. “His head is just stuck ridiculously far up his ass, same as yours.”

“Seriously, Kate, where the hell did you get _that?”_ The shield – the _that_ in question – was immune to the befuddled glare Clint was aiming in its direction.

“Black Widow and Ironman.” She stood up for another cup of coffee, and came back with a second fork. Forcing it into his hand, Kate went back to eating the cake. “I never realized how _bulky_ that thing is; I mean, it’s pretty light, but I can’t understand how either of you can deal with that much _anything_ on your arm.”

“Wait, Tony?”

“And Natasha, yeah. You work with them; you know who they are. Now he has to come back.”

“What?”

“Tony offered to bring that shield back so Steve didn’t have to manage it all up I-95. I got a call from Natasha – at _four_ this morning, by the way, so I hope you realize how fucking much I like you – to let me know Ironman was hovering outside my window, so _now_ it’s back.” Kate said it all so casually, like she was walking through the basics of stringing her bow, and like _any_ of that made a single bit of sense to Clint’s slowly imploding brain.

He was still processing, still trying to catch up with all of this, when she started up talking again; Clint had been so shocked he hadn’t noticed Kate finish her coffee in the interim. “Steve will need at least one of them for work. He’ll have to come back eventually, so you can try and start talking to him then.”

“How did you know we weren’t talking?”

“Okay, one, you had your little panic fight right above my yoga mat; I live downstairs, I _can_ hear, and you’re both loud and stompy.” Rolling her eyes, his apprentice smirked up at him before looking away. Kate lifted the mug to her lips, speaking behind it as she waved Lucky closer. “Two, someone had to keep an eye on you guys when you weren’t on the comms, and Natasha asked me to do it.”

“I brought enough food to last you a few days, and I’m taking Lucky for a while, so you don’t have to leave. The bet’s still on, but I don’t have any skin in this game and I’m sick of listening to you stomp around above my head all mopey and pathetic.”

 _Bet?!_ Clint pressed his eyes with the heels of both hands. This wasn’t making any damn sense, and – while _that_ was a great summation of his life at present – it wasn’t anything he needed more of right now.

Kate probably meant well; she usually did. Sure, she might not be the most _pleasant_ about explaining things – especially if she seemed to think he should already know them – but Clint never questioned that she meant well. Still, he was just so fucking over the cryptic shit, with wordplay and confusion and not knowing. “Can you please just tell me what the hell is going on, Kate?”

“You really didn’t notice?” Kate tilted her head, brows lifting, looking first surprised, then strangely sedate, nigh-on remorseful. “Shit, I thought… look. TLDR: We all made bets on when you two would finally get it and just _kiss_ already, but, apparently, you’re _both_ idiots – which is its own kind of terrifying – and now you’re both _miserable_ , and we’re all sick of it.”

“ _We?!”_

“Yeah, the pool’s shrunk, but it’s been going so long that some of us decided to intervene. Nat and I are out – we had it pegged for June or July – and Tony has been ranting in the chat about t-shirts since _April.”_ Clint was only half-listening now. Tony had known. _Nat_ had _known!_ Kate kept talking. “It might screw up whoever put long odds on you shooting Steve or catching the shield to the face, but I don’t even care anymore.”

“Kate.” It was a lot to process. Too much. _Too damn much._ Clint had been tiptoeing around this whole mess for weeks – probably _months_ , but he lied for a living some days, so self-deception came easily – and now he knew that probably _everyone_ – or, at the least, probably the _important_ people – in his life had known all along. Clint wasn’t sure whether to be grateful that, aside from Nat’s conversation, they _hadn’t_ done anything up until this point; or whether he should be pissed that no one had just come out and slapped some sense into him. Which, now that Kate was doing it, wasn’t actually all that helpful. Now that he knew, well – great – but Steve was _gone_ , and he was still here, staring back and forth between his half eaten cake-in-a-box and his apprentice. “What do I even…?

Kate was on her feet, hands palm-flat on the table, arching up over him, gone all the way up on tiptoe so she could loom properly. Her hair fell around her face, pushing the headband forward as she glared down at him, words almost yelled back at him. “You stay right here until Steve gets back, and then you get your guy. That’s what you do, Hawkeye!”

“You two talk about this like adults – difficult, I know, but use your hands if you have to – and then you drag him up those stairs and you make it up to him.” She yanked off her headband, pushing her hair back behind her ears and turning away with a grumble. “Crap, I didn’t need _that_ image in my brain, either…”

His protégé settled – fixing her hair, rinsing her mug, and snatching Lucky’s leash from its hook beside the door – walking back to put a hand on his shoulder once she had the dog leashed and sitting at her heel. “I’m going to be gone for a week. _You_ are going to have this figured out when I get back. Dysfunctional homes aren’t good for sweet little fur babies, and I might have to sue for full custody.”

“You got this, Hawkeye.” Kate patted his shoulder, nodding slowly as he finally looked back up at her.

Clint nodded on reflex, then bolted out of his chair, snatching her into a hug. “Thanks, Hawkeye.”

She didn’t even grumble, lightly patting his side until he let her go, then stepping back as she dusted off imaginary lint.

He trailed her to the door, getting in a last side-hug before she headed out.

Kate was out the door, already in the hallway as Lucky strained on the leash, when she turned her gaze back at him. She wasn’t quite glaring, but her face was serious, at least until she smirked at the end. “If Rogers turns out to be a screamer, I’m sending you my therapy bill.”

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

The kitchen went from pleasantly dark, illuminated by street lights reflecting upwards, to blinding, as a voice dripping with enough exasperation to start puddling on the floor ground out, “Last I checked, you don’t actually live _here,_ Rogers.”

Steve was halfway to picking out every single chocolate chunk in the mostly melted gallon of icecream – he’d planned to try the sherbet, next – when Tony flipped on the lights of the communal kitchen. Steve blinked back at the shorter man from where he leaned against the counter, spoon halfway to his mouth as he answered. “I still have quarters here.”

“Yeah, so do Romanov and Wilson, but they _also_ don’t live here.” Tony yanked open the sink-side drawer, lifting out a spoon. He pulled the aforementioned sherbet – peppermint-lime – out of the freezer. Tony scooted up onto one of the bar stools. “Hell, I’ve seen Banner more than you around here, and he spent five months in Bhutan, so…”

“Tony, I-”

“No, yeah, sure, you _live here,_ right. JARVIS, could you scan through the log data on Cap’s quarters and tell us how often he’s been in them this year?” Tony’s hand was up to quiet Steve before he even opened his mouth, talking over him just as Steve began to voice another protest. “You know what, JARVIS, start at February first – we’ll give it a week or so; seems fair right? – and stop counting last Thursday? The first to the first seems about right, dontcha think, Steve?”

“To-”

This time it was JARVIS who cut him off, answering down from above them. “Since the first of February, Captain Rogers has spent one million, seven-hundred fourteen thousand, five hundred twenty-six seconds in his quarters.”

“Huh, wow, that little?” Tony shrugged and focused on his pint of sherbet, not making eye-contact. “Kind of a surprise, really. I mean, we at least see the kid more than _that_ , and he has a curfew.”

“Stark, stop-”

“I don’t think I will, Rogers.”

“ _Tony._ ” Steve put the ice cream back on the countertop, dropping the spoon into the cardboard carton. He didn’t need this; he already felt like a shit-hook, anyway. It would have been easier to just go straight from Raleigh back up state, but he’d left the spare shield back at their… at _Clint’s_ apartment when he’d-

When Tony had offered to haul the main one back up, Steve had thought he was going to bring the shield back to the tower – he had always kept it _here_ – but it hadn’t been in his quarters. Or the equipment room. Or _anywhere_ because, according to JARVIS – _‘I’m sorry, Captain Rogers, but Sir was not carrying anything when he returned.’_ – Tony hadn’t brought it back. At least not back _here_.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea. Seconds might be a bit much, could you convert that for us, JARVIS?” Tony stared Steve down, slightly higher now that he was sitting on the bar stool, talking around a mouthful of sherbet. “Just to make it easier for _Steven?”_

“That equates to two weeks, five days, twenty hours, fifteen minutes, and twenty-six seconds, Sir.”

“Less that three weeks in nine months?” Stark shook his head. “Yeah, you don’t live here, Steve; stop eating the rocky road and go home.”

Setting his own pint down, Tony reached across the counter, taking Steve’s ice cream, reaching to pluck away his spoon and toss it into the sink. With both cartons in hand, Tony walked back to the freezer, tucking them away, then leaning against the stainless steel door.

Well, there went _that_ plan. Steve had thought this had seemed too easy – keeping any sort of secret from the team was difficult at best, impossible at worst – but he had at least thought he could stay here until things blew over. Clint was bound to get called out at some point, and Steve didn’t have all that much in the apartment, even if it was important. Just his sketchbooks – sitting on the bookshelf they’d rescued from the curb – some clothes – he wasn't sure he’d ever wear the tux, again, anyway – and his afghan – that… That could probably be taken apart, right? It would be a shame for Clint to have wasted the wool like he’d wasted his time. Steve couldn’t keep it; he would have to be a complete fuckhead to keep something that had taken so much undeserved effort.

He could stake out the building across the street until Clint left; aside from the restaurants, the upper floors had always looked empty from the apartment windows. Steve could wait out his… _former_ roommate there, then grab his meagre possessions and go. Later, not now. “It’s almost two, Tony.”

“It’s New York, Steve. That’s practically early.” Tony flicked off the kitchen light, but stayed standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “Go home.”

 _Home?_ That place didn’t exist, not anymore. Steve had destroyed it; stupidly flailing in a panic that had ruined any chance at calling the fourth floor apartment anything more than that place he _used to_ live. It might have been a home, once – had sure _felt_ like one – but the thing – the _feeling_ – that had made it one was gone, and it was his own damn fault. Steve slumped a bit further onto the counter. Stark wasn’t wrong; this was New York. There was somewhere he could go, even at ten minutes to o-two-hundred on a Sunday, even if the pancakes wouldn’t taste as good, but… Steve didn’t want to sit up in a diner. He wanted to go _home._

“Don’t make me kick you out, Cap.”

Steve straightened up, crossing the kitchen and shoving his way past Tony, knocking less than gently into the other man’s shoulder as he headed for the elevator. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“You do that, _Smedes.”_

Steve wasn’t sure what bothered him more: the near automatic way he snapped his hands to make finger guns as he flipped Tony off, the hard pressure behind his eyes once he realized he’d done it, or the way _that name_ seemed wrong coming out of anyone’s mouth but Clint’s. Steve leaned his head against the back wall of the lift car, grateful that JARVIS stayed silent as it descended.

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

He’d taken almost an hour after Kate left just to stare at the walls and think, eyes drifting over Steve’s sketches all the while; there were some places where he could barely see the plaster, like around the back wall by the windows, where the light was good, and the holes had been the worst. Clint had drifted over to the door, grabbing both shields, and leaning them against the television table. He had finished his coffee, eaten – it was only the cake and a peanut butter sandwich, but it was _something_ – taken a shower, and changed into a clean pair of sweats that were actually his. Clint had debated putting on a shirt at all, but had settled on the black and purple shield t-shirt, the custom sleeveless smedium. He’d snatched the afghan from the foot of Steve’s bed, too, wrapping it around his shoulders; he’d felt warmer once he was wrapped in the blanket, especially in the little hollow behind his ribs and between his lungs.

Clint settled himself on the sofa. He wasn’t sure exactly when Steve would be getting back – if it would even be today – but he had stayed awake for days on missions far less important than this was. He would wait up for Steve, and then he would apologize. He would lay everything out on the table, and hope it didn’t get flipped over on top of him. Clint didn’t find it the most comforting plan, but it wasn’t just him and Steve that were going to have problems if they didn’t resolve whatever this was between them. All he could do was hope there was still something left, once that resolution was reached.

Clint curled up in his corner of the sofa, then chuckled sadly. When had the other end – the one with less shitty springs and much better sight-lines – become Steve’s end? How far gone was he that he’d automatically made sure Steve was positioned in the safer, more easily defensible sections of the apartment, right down to the damn _couch?_ How much trust had Clint put in him to know that Steve wouldn’t screw him over with that advantage? And when had these lumpy cushions suddenly become so much less comfortable without Steve’s leg to press his feet into?

Probably about the same time Steve started having a side of the table. Or a spot for his mug. Had it been the first time Steve had asked to borrow Clint’s slides for a quick trip out? The last time, when they’d hit the point that he didn’t even have to ask? Was it when Steve’s penchants for anchovies and oversweet coffee and crunchy peanut butter straight from the jar had gone from being weird to being quirky, or when they’d slowly shifted into being endearing?

Maybe it was when the other man shifted from being Cap to being Rogers. From being Rogers to being Steve. Maybe it was the moment Clint realized he wanted to drop a word; for Steve to go from being _his roommate_ to being _his_. Whenever that had been, now was the time Clint admitted there was a word for that, even if it felt like his tongue would swell up and choke him if he said it.

Clint flipped through the movies he had on his television, cueing up _Men in Tights_ , and settled in to wait. He shoved his bare feet under the third cushion; a poor substitute, indeed.

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

Steve hadn’t bothered with his motorcycle; it wasn’t that far, and there was no point announcing his arrival. He had a key. It would have to come off the ring, soon, since he didn’t actually live here anymore. He glanced up at the southwest corner of the building, eyeing the windows. With the curtains drawn downstairs, and no light on in the bedroom, Steve didn’t know whether Clint was actually inside. Of course, he couldn’t spend all night on the sidewalk, either.

The stairs had never seemed this steep, before; he must have tripped or knocked into the rail half a dozen times on the four flights to the top. Steve paused on the third floor, casting eyes toward Kate’s apartment. Dumping Lucky on her doorstep hadn’t been a great plan, but it had been all he could think of. That Hawkeye was probably going to kill him – try, at least, maybe maim – and he honestly couldn’t fault her for that.

When he reached their apartment door – _Clint’s,_ he reminded himself, _not theirs_ – Steve slid the key home, lifting the knob to stop the hinges from screaming as he pushed it open. He wasn’t immediately hit by eighty pounds of fur and drool, which meant Lucky must still be with Hawkeye the Younger. The apartment was mostly dark, lit only by the single light over the sink and the pale blue words – _No Input_ – drifting across the otherwise blank screen on the television. Closing the door gently behind him, Steve crept forward, moving through the space with the caution usually reserved for missions, wondering where his roommate was, if he was here at all.

The soft _snerk-!_ off to his left set Steve heading further into the apartment, glancing into the living room, scanning until he recognized the mess of blond hair at the closer end of the sofa, then looking down until he saw the man in question. Clint was sleeping. A bit of a surprise, really, that his roommate would be asleep now. It was past two, yes, but that wasn’t all that late, especially if Clint had been even half-rested. Given the mess in the kitchen, though – sink full of dishes, fletching supplies scattered on the dining table, coffee grounds all over the counter – and the fact that the entire space between the living room windows was bristling with arrows, Steve doubted Clint had been. Also his fault. _Fuck_.

He needed to get the shield, get his stuff, and get out before Clint woke up; and, since he could see the hint of purple above the man’s ears, Steve needed to do it quietly. On _those_ stairs. He should have just pried open the window, again, and come in that way. He didn’t really _need_ most of that stuff and – now that he’d stepped out of the kitchen – he could see his shields over by the tv table. Those were all Steve really _had_ to get.

He slid his shoes off, mindful of the worn places on the wooden boards, tiptoeing into the front room, past the edge of the coffee table. Steve paused, eyes drawn to the man sleeping only a few feet away, breath catching with a swallowed sigh. He _needed_ to look, just to make sure Clint was alright, of course. That was why he was frozen here, gaze focused on the Clint’s face; he was checking to make sure his roommate hadn’t hurt himself, wasn’t too haggard. Because Steve definitely wasn’t just _staring_ at Clint. He was _observing_.

Clint was stretched out across the sofa, bare toes poking out from beneath the blanket – _Steve’s blanket_ – draped over his legs, one arm above his head, the other flopped over his chest. He was wearing _that_ shirt, with the purple banded star. Steve hadn’t seen him in it too much, but – judging by the way the black had faded out to gray, and the thin spots Steve could see around the arms and low on his torso – Clint had been wearing it often enough. With his eyes closed and mouth half-open around a soft snore, Clint looked perfect, even illuminated only by the dull, blue light coming off the tv screen.

Steve’s feet were moving before his brain caught up with them, bringing him to stand beside the sofa, looking down at that familiar sleeping face. He reached to brace his arm on the back cushion, arched over Clint. His roommate shifted, breath slow and even as he tipped fully onto his back, lips just parted, lashes resting on freckled cheeks. Steve dug his fingers into the worn fabric and padding, teeth pressing into his own lip.

Clint was right _there._

Steve could just lean in and, well, it was called _stealing a kiss_ for a reason, wasn’t it? There was such a small risk that Clint would wake up. The man could sleep through anything; even Steve’s snoring and his own more than occasional nightmares. Clint hadn’t punched or knifed him in his sleep more than two or three times since he’d moved in, and hadn’t woken when Steve had tucked him in for weeks, either. Plus, he was _right there_ , laid out like a dream across the couch.

It would be simple. Steve could be quick about it, and he’d be gone, back to the tower, right after. One sweet touch, one last thing to remember those pleasant months by before Steve put them behind him forever. He’d be gone – across town, then off to the facility up-state – and Clint wouldn’t ever have to know.

But _Steve_ would have to know. He would have to know how Clint’s skin, Clint’s _lips,_ felt against his own. He would have to keep that to himself, every time those same lips spoke, or smiled, or pressed with a heady sigh against the edge of a coffee mug. And he would never be able to ever kiss those lips again. Steve sighed, gently dropping the afghan across his… his roommate. _Former_ roommate. Carefully, he brushed Clint’s hair back off his forehead, eyes downcast. “I can’t.”

Fingers wrapped around his hand, holding it close against Clint’s temple. Steve squeaked, actually lifting his other hand to cover his mouth in embarrassed horror as he stared down into a pair of very open, very _awake_ blue-grey eyes. “Or you could, maybe, and put us both out of our misery.”

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun…!


	15. Clint/Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Steve _were_ roommates…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note:** For those of you that have read along since the beginning, you’ll notice the rating bumped up two whole letters – _Oooh… Explicit_ – and just _look_ at the shiny new _Slow Burn_ tag! You know what _that_ means!
> 
> So if you’re here for hot, raunchy smut… well, this is not really _that._ As many of you know already, smut is not my forte. (I can only promise that I tried, not that I succeeded.) However, if you are here to watch two lovesick idiots derp their way to a little run of mattress surfing? Then you are _absolutely_ in the right place.
> 
> Remember that _antepenultimate_ shout-out from the previous chapter? Well, that was because this is the _penultimate_ chapter, not the last. That’ll be out in a few days, just under the wire, so hang around until the end if you can! (It’s worth it: Lucky is back!) Just like last chapter, this one ran long, so just sit back, pull up a screen, and have yourself a nice, flail-ful read. But be warned: An overabundance of pines can lead to an excess of sap.
> 
> As usual, massive thanks for all of the support, with a special hug for Rosie: Thanks for holding my clammy hands through all my ham-fisted key-smashing. (Please pardon the inevitable typos.)

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Steve stared – back and forth between Clint’s face and Clint’s hand on his wrist – jaw working through a few silent flaps before he spoke, incredulity mixed with mind-numbed terror and his last sliver of hope. “Misery?”

“Well, either you’re maybe gonna kiss me, or I have _vastly_ misjudged this situation.” Clint sighed, eyes cutting away from Steve’s as he let go. He shifted, dropping both arms onto his chest, almost giving himself a hug as he hunched his shoulders. “Really hoping it’s not that second option, though, ’cause I’d have to put on shoes, and leave, and-”

“You-!” Steve stifled himself, trying to keep his voice even as he asked, “You _knew?”_

“That I had a thing for you?” Grey-blue eyes flicked briefly up to his face. “Or that you had one for me?”

Clint knew-? And he had-? _Had?!_ Past tense? Current? Mind racing, but feet glued to the floor, Steve couldn’t hold onto any single thought long enough to get it past his lips. He nodded dumbly.

“Yeah, I sorta noticed. I mean, I’m a spy and a sniper.” Clint pressed himself up slightly on his elbows, head tilted to the side, gaze downcast as he spoke. “Apparently, I’m shit at flirting, but I’m good at watching and waiting.

The _watching_ , Steve had seen. _Felt._ He _hadn’t_ been imagining it, after all, but then, that raised _so_ many questions. _Too many questions_. But one was more important than the others, forcing its way to the top of the roiling mass of Steve’s thoughts. Clint had said waiting. _Waiting?!_ “How long?”

“I’d hoped you’d get the hint by the time my toes healed, but…” Clint blinked up at Steve as he trailed off. His roommate pressed his lips together, taking a deep breath, then releasing it in a single fast huff. “But then I thought maybe I was wrong…”

“I don’t-” Toes? Right. Clint had broken them when they were dancing. Well, truthfully, _Steve_ had broken them the night of Tony’s party. The party he had held to celebrate the end of summer. _Six weeks ago._ When it was barely September. “That’s a lot of wasted time, Clint.”

Clint nodded, expression shifting, pensive, to pleased, to something so open and – dare he hope? – _needy_ that Steve could only keep staring. Looking back at him, Clint tipped his chin up; posture incongruously defiant with his voice so low in the quiet apartment. “Then maybe we should do something about that? Since your mouth is up there, and my face is down here?”

Steve nodded. His roommate _did_ make a fair point.

•°☆°•

Clint had wanted to say more – apologize, talk, try to understand – but that plan had gone out the window the moment he’d awoken to Steve creeping through the apartment. By the time he realized it was his roommate – and _not_ either his imagination or Kate sneaking around the place – Steve was already standing in the living room, staring right at him, face drawn down like he was moments from crying. He’d been bent over Clint so quickly, and Clint had reacted without thought once Steve spoke.

Steve’s hand settled on the pillow beneath his head, soft blue eyes blinking down at him, and then his roommate’s lips were on his.

The kiss was tentative and – with Steve tilted sideways and bent over like he was – it was more than a little awkward, too. Stubble only looked sexy and rugged until it was abrading you nose, and Clint had fumbled trying to get his arms around his roommate’s neck, nearly smacking Steve’s ear, but still… He was _kissing Steve._ Who – instead of blanching, or apologizing, or running back out that door, again – was actually returning that kiss. Had _initiated_ that kiss. Was leaning up, and – _Aww, kisses, no… come back…_ – No, wait, Steve was right side up now, one foot still on the floor, the other leg bent and braced between his own as he lent over Clint, lips hungry and seeking. _Much better_. If a much less soft kiss than before.

 _This_ one was downright frantic, all pressure and desperation, and – for the moment – far too heavy on the teeth. Clint laid his hands on either side of Steve’s face, thumbs stroking high cheekbones, easing back to slow the pace; his arching pressing him up against Steve’s chest even as it freed the slimmest of spaces between their lips. “Hey… Steve, hey, I’m not goin’ anywhere, okay?”

“Yeah, but- yeah…” Steve rolled his shoulders back before once more pressing down into the kiss, smashing their noses together as their lips met. Clint groaned, tilting his own head one way and pressing Steve’s in the other direction, fingers sliding through blond hair to settle against the back of Steve’s neck.

The slick rasp of Steve’s tongue over his own would have been enough to set every fibre of Clint’s nerves tingling all on its own. But with the other man straddled up over him, knee bracketed by his thighs and hands pressing into his shoulders, it felt like he’d thrown himself down on a live subway rail. He let his own hands settle in the middle of Steve’s back, rubbing as soothingly as he could. “Smedes…” He leaned back, again, “… we can take a minute to breathe.”

“Sorry!” The same panic Clint had seen when Steve had bolted was back as he pulled away. Combined with his ensuing string of rambles, it gave that whole episode from earlier in the week a lot more context. “Just… not used ta gettin’ what I… ’s a lot to… whatchacallit… process?”

“Hey, okay; so slow down. Process.” Clint kept one hand cupped against Steve’s cheek, thumb rubbing in a slow arc over flushed skin. The other rubbed gently down Steve’s back as Clint tried to calm him. “I’m gonna stay right here, yeah?”

“Yeah…?” Steve’s eyes went wider. A nervous, excited giggle squeaked out of him before he pressed his face into the crook of Clint’s neck and shoulder. “Never thought I’d get ta be like this with anyone…”

His words, swift and breathy, were almost stuttered, less cogent sentences than a barely strung together jumble of thoughts filtered through a choking Brooklyn accent. “Just regular… ’m not sick, my own place and ’m earnin’ my keep, this homey thing with a couch an’ the breakfasts, the dog, an’ you with me… everythin’ I ever wanted. Not supposeta get that, Clint. Not me… Not ever… ’n, damn, now you’re here, an’ you smell good…”

Steve buried his face closer against Clint’s neck and shoulder, slotting their bodies perfectly together, even as he had to bend his knees to avoid the arm of the couch.

“Steve, that’s… wow…” _Wow_ didn’t even touch this feeling, but Clint had been rendered near inarticulate at Steve’s confession, and he was trying his best. What was he even supposed to say to that? How was Clint supposed to respond when the literal embodiment of all that was good put _him_ in the same sentence as _everything I ever wanted?_ Besides, of course, spend the next few moments in shock, idly petting along Steve’s back before tentatively forcing out the closest thing to cogent speech that Clint could muster. “I mean, thank you, but, Steve, you know you-” He stumbled, tripping over his words; he was terrified, but he needed to at least say this much. “You don’t have to settle for this – for _me_ – right?”

“I mean, there’s plenty of people that would…” _Be better for you._ His brain offered. _Deserve this._ Even with Steve right there in his arms, with Clint’s lips still tingling from that last bout of rough kisses, it was all too surreal, too close to impossible for him to really grasp it as true. His roommate was so damn _decent._ “You could pretty much just ask and have whatever you wanted, Steve. _Whomever_ you wanted.”

“Really?” Steve leaned up to look at him, voice tempered with awe. Despite that, he had on his _contingency face_ , the one that came out when they were managing an abrupt change of plan in the field, usually before shit went down.

Clint nodded, too scared to voice more than a mumbled, “Unmhmm…”

“Whatever _and_ whomever? All I hafta- _have to_ do is ask?” Steve’s earnest stare would have pinned Clint where he lie, even if the other man hadn’t been bodily stretched over him. _“Anyone?”_

“Yeah, Steve.” Clint wasn’t sure whether to be hopeful or not; wasn’t sure what plans might be forming behind those bright blue eyes. “Yeah… pretty much anyone.”

“Alright then.” Steve nodded sharply and stood up.

Clint had all of a moment to blink back his disappointment before there was an arm tucking beneath his shoulders – _Oh, good!_ – then another slipping up under his ass – _Also good!_ – and then Clint was in the air with a yelp, legs instinctively locking behind Steve’s back, arms circling his shoulders as Steve hoisted him from the sofa. “Wha-?”

“This is me askin’.” Steve’s already noticeable blush deepened, until his ears nearly matched the red his shirt. Both hands settled beneath Clint’s backside as Steve lifted him a bit higher. “So…”

Clint couldn’t answer, brain still trying to reboot from multiple rounds of emotional shocks while processing that Steve Rogers’ hands were cupping his ass as the man held him up in the living room of his apartment. He nodded jerkily. Clint really hoped that his mumbled _uh-hu_ sounded less like the giddy stammer echoing in his head, but, when Steve smiled back at him, he realized it didn’t matter all that much. Clint didn’t know quite what he was asking, until it was out of his mouth. “Why?”

“Because it’s only home with you.” Steve’s smile dipped – briefly, nervously – before he brought his forehead to rest on Clint’s own, letting their noses brush. “And that couch is already well past busted; not as sturdy as a bed.”

“A bed?”

“My bed.” Steve stepped away from the sofa. His eyes flicked over Clint’s shoulder as he walked, shoulders shrugging beneath Clint’s arms. “Or yours.”

“Right, but… _why?”_

“Whomever I want? That’s simple: You. Whatever I want?” There was a bright edge to the grin pulling Steve’s face, equal parts cautious and hopeful. “Well, I’m sick of only sneaking looks at you and daydreamin,’ and there are two beds upstairs sayin’ I don’t have to, so…”

Maybe Clint just wasn’t going to get any solid answer. Maybe, with Steve literally sweeping him off his feet to carry him to bed, Clint didn’t need one just now. “Yours. Better view.”

Steve chuckled and paused at the base of the stairs, eyes hungry in the wan glow from the kitchen light, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “View’s pretty good from where I’m lookin.’”

He fought down the urge to duck under Steve’s gaze; knowing Steve wanted him and actually _feeling_ it were two very different things. Clint ended up leaning in to kiss him – brief and hard – just to break that heavy stare. _“_ Walk before I do something stupid and we fall up the damn stairs.”

“We’ve been plenty stupid up to this point.” Steve stayed were he stood, fingers flexing on Clint’s ass. “Why stop now?”

Clint locked his ankles, thighs pressing Steve’s hips, and his roommate – Crush? Lover? _Boyfriend?_ – took the hint and mounted the stairs. There was a squeal as Steve hit the middle step – that stupid one that Clint still needed to fix because it had _always_ been noisy – but this time it was ominously low, groaning under their combined weight.

Clint squeaked. Steve froze. The fifth stair held.

Until it didn’t.

The middle step split with a crack, pitching them forward in a hollering mass. Steve’s arms went to the rail and the stairs above them, bracing to keep them from slamming into the steps, and Clint hung on like a koala as his roommate hauled them up to the sixth step, leaving a leg-sized hole through the fifth.

“I’ll fix that!” Clint blurted without thinking.

Steve giggled – fucking giggled – as he straightened up, hands settling back beneath Clint’s ass and hauling him closer. “Must be a sign.”

Wrapped around Steve as he was, Clint just huffed and nuzzled in against the base of his throat, lips pressed to where Steve’s pulse jumped beneath his skin, relishing the soft whine that got him. Steve did manage to get them both the rest of the way up the stairs and through the post-cyclone disaster of his room – around a month’s worth of clothing piles and the past few days of flung underwear – even as Clint set to work trying to map the side of Steve’s neck with only lips and tongue. He was wholly intent on wringing as many of those breathy sounds from Steve as he could.

They made it safely to the solar door, but any remaining coordination Steve retainedended there, in no small part because – now that he didn’t have to – Clint just couldn’t help himself. He caught Steve’s ear in his teeth, Steve walked shin first into the foot of his bed, and they went down hard onto the mattress in a heap. Clint’s head narrowly missed the headboard, and Steve landed half atop him with his legs hanging off the bed.

Steve pushed up on his elbows – _“You, alright?”_ – but Clint pulled him back, up the bed and down next to him properly, wrapping his arms around Steve as they lay; Clint on his back, with Steve pulled in against his side. “Mmhmm. You?”

“’m good.” Steve nodded into the crook of Clint’s shoulder. “So much better th’n good.”

“Yeah?”

Steve lifted his head, again, shrugging with a sideways smile. “Got you all to myself, don’t I?”

Clint couldn’t help noticing that the look Steve now gave him was the same one he’d worn whenever Clint hadn’t been dancing with him. _Wasted time, indeed._ “Possessive much?”

“That a problem?”

“Fuck no.” It was, to Clint’s mind, only a problem in that he was having difficulty managing both the riot of emotion inside his head and his need to keep talking. Yes, something just like their current situation had been an infrequent fantasy of Clint’s for months, and a pretty constant one for weeks, but it was functionally mind-blowing for it to be _real._ For shit’s sake, Clint had been wandering around bare-ass naked and only half coherent for most of the past two days; this was a lot to handle all at once for a guy who’d taken forty-eight hours and an hour of getting bitched at to remember that showering and eating food were kind of important. “My amazingly hot younger roommate wants to claim me as his, and you think I’m complaining?”

That earned him a quirked brow. “Younger?”

“Functionally, if not also actually, short-pants.”

Steve pulled back a bit further from his side, propping up on his elbow. “Are you calling me immature?”

With Steve facing him like that – lip pushed forward in the slightest of pouts, clear blue eyes laughing – Clint couldn’t _not_ tap a finger against the tip of his nose; Steve _deserved_ to be booped right then. He chuckled as Steve automatically crossed his eyes, scrunching the bridge of his nose as Clint pulled his finger away. “Well, you can’t cook, and you use a _fork_ toeat peanut butter out of the jar.”

“You _like_ it.”

“Yeah.” That was more than true. “Yeah, I _do.”_ Clint nodded as he leaned back in for another kiss, feeling Steve shimmying in against his hip; close and hard against his thigh, even through the double layers of their pants. Clint snaked his other arm around Steve, pulling him closer, more atop than beside him, breath catching a moment as Steve’s legs settled along the outside of his own. He pulled back from the kiss with a reluctant sigh, still close enough that he was almost speaking straight back into Steve’s mouth. “’m just hoping I can keep up.”

Steve set his arms down on either side of Clint’s head. His already prominent flush deepened as he rocked his hips down a fraction, making Clint groan and startling a squeak out of himself as their erections pressed together. “Seem pretty up to me.”

“Oh, sh-!” It was too ridiculous – too close to being the sexual equivalent of lame dad humour – for Clint not to find it hilarious. “Now _that joke_ shows your age, Smedes.” He shook his head, feeling some of the nervous tension bleed out of him as he laughed, relaxing more as Steve chuckled with him.

Steve was still smiling down at him when they both managed to get a handle on their giggles, and Clint did nothing to stop the dopey, besotted grin he could feel creeping onto his face in answer. Even in the darkened room, there was a rosy glow to his roommate’s face, brightening the curve of his cheek, the tips of his nose and ears, the funny little cowlick his bangs had been pushed up into. Clint realized that last one was probably a trick of the light coming in from outside, but it didn’t matter; even limned in the neon pink glow off the sign of the chicken and waffle joint across the street, the man above him looked amazing.

Clint cupped his hand against Steve’s jaw. He’d still had the beard when he’d run out of the apartment on Tuesday, and Clint hadn’t seen him this clean shaven in over a month. It wasn’t unlike getting to see him again for the first time, only closer, and more intimate, and – really – _nothing_ like that with the way gazing up at Steve was wiping out the last few functional cells in Clint’s brain, leaving him to mumble only two banal words. “You shaved.”

“I can grow it back.” Steve turned, lips brushing the ball of Clint’s thumb and making him squirm.

“If you want.”

“You got a thing for beards?”

“Nah.” After this long, however Steve wanted to look wasn’t gonna change anything; Clint was always gonna be looking his way, regardless. “Just got a thing for you, and you’re gorgeous either way.” At Steve’s silence – he was just staring at Clint with his mouth half open – he continued. “Never had much of a filter to begin with; no point using it now.”

Though he still looked adorably embarrassed, Steve’s voice was deceptively even as he retorted, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Awww; you think I’m cute?”

Steve made a show of giving him a once over – face a mockery of serious consideration, hand lifting from Clint’s shoulder to his own chin – before he nodded slowly. “I’d say more rakishly handsome.” Clint snorted, and Steve rolled his eyes. “Or I could take a page out of Kate’s book, and just say _’pants-soakingly hot.’”_

Now wasn’t _that_ a punch to the head. And the gut. And, well, a little lower, too. Did it sound weird as hell hearing _Steve_ describe _him_ like _that?_ _Hell, yeah!_ Was Clint gonna even argue that it was a bad sort of weird? _Fuck no!_ Was he actually going to do something about all of this, now that he knew the attraction was mutual and definitely _probably_ more than just Steve being horny and him being nearby?

Yes; absolutely. Clint had wanted to talk about this whole thing straight away when Steve got back and – well – maybe now wasn’t the _best_ moment to go through _all_ of it, but he needed to know where this was going; where Steve _wanted_ it to go, if anywhere beyond cracking lame jokes and making out on his roommate’s too small bed. Which, honestly, was amazing, and – considering where they’d been just a week ago – pretty damn near perfect as far as Clint was concerned. Still, not talking had been what left them waiting so long to get here, so they had to do at least a little bit. Plus, as an added bonus, Steve’s cheeks got rosier, ears edging closer to crimson, every time he spoke, and Clint wasn’t going to pass up _that_ opportunity now that he had it. “What do you _want_ , Steve?”

•°☆°•

Steve felt himself shrug as he tucked his head under Clint’s chin. What did he _want?_ Fuck if _that_ wasn’t a long-ass list, but the most important box on it had already been ticked, and, frankly, Steve would have been more than content to set everything else aside. “Already got it; you’re right here, aren’t you?”

 _“Smedes...”_ Steve wasn’t sure how Clint could make him shudder from just that – dropping his voice and drawing that silly nickname out like a plea – but he squirmed closer and closed his eyes. He stayed there a few minutes – long enough to breathe in the sharp, woodsy smell that clung to Clint’s skin – before he leaned back up and opened his eyes.

When he did, Clint was right there, smiling up at him, real and sweet, voice toeing the line of sincerity and teasing as he spoke. “I can’t exactly give you _’everything you ever wanted’_ if I don’t know what that is, Steve.”

His cheeks burned at hearing Clint repeat his own half-nonsense declaration back to him, and Steve almost closed his eyes, again, before he asked. “Kiss me?”

“If that’s all…” Clint stretched, back and hips arching just enough to push up in an undulating grind against him, while his hands lifted to cup Steve’s face, pulling him back down. “Just a kiss, right?”

“Nnhg-” Even flushed and soft-eyed underneath him like this, Clint Barton was too damn smug. Steve was sorely tempted to say _yes_ , only a kiss, just to see what would happen; he was tempted, but not stupid. “Clint, you asking like that isn’t fair.”

“Nope.” Clint grinned up at him, hands drifting down his back, then sliding up, again. “Should I have picked you up, instead?”

Steve met his growing smirk with a tepid smile, teeth sinking into his lower lip. Clint _really_ meant it. Steve knew that, now. He didn’t have to be afraid of fucking up, of asking for what he wanted. Clint had literally told him to do just that, and here he was, holding Steve close, open acceptance in his eyes as manifest proof of his promises. Steve didn’t have to tiptoe around this anymore. He never should have done so in the first place, but now he could be obvious; bluntly honest about his desires. “I want to pin you to this mattress and ride you until I can’t feel my legs.” Maybe _too_ honest.

Clint froze, eyes laughably wide as his brows shot up his forehead. His lips pressed together, pulled down at the corners as he looked away – _Damnit!_ – filling Steve with a rush of dread, before he heard the first snort. Clint snorted again, then laughed, loud and long and a little manic, shaking beneath him. He pulled Steve closer, hands settling on his hips, and then the whole world jerked in a twist around him; it left Steve wondering just when his own head had hit the pillow as Clint’s laughter slowly ebbed.

“You know I’m not easy to pin.” His roommate pressed Steve’s shoulders into the mattress, rolling his hips and forcing a gasp out of Steve as he ground down. “Something like this closer to what you had in mind?”

“Ah-!” Steve nodded, probably too much and too quickly, hands scrabbling as he vacillated between clutching at the bed linens or his roommate. He ended up grasping the lower edge of Clint’s t-shirt, rolling the hem between his fingers as he asked, “Maybe with less clothing in the way?”

Clint winked down at him, sitting back on his haunches, kneeling between Steve’s thighs. “Be my guest.”

Even with clothing between them, just holding Clint had already been infinitely better than Steve had imagined. Not that he’d had too many gaps to fill with musings about his roommate naked, either; given Clint’s general aversions to clothes and personal space, Steve had been blessed with extensive references, but nothing compared to the real thing. He bunched up the hem of that fading t-shirt, wanting the garment gone so he could get his hands on the warm skin beneath it, pushing the fabric midway up Clint’s torso in a single hard shove.

“Hey! That’s my favourite shirt.” Clint leaned further back, reaching down and pulling the sleeveless shirt up over his head and – in a move that shocked Steve and nearly sent him clutching his chest – gently draping it over the headboard. Not on the floor. _Hung up_ , like it really meant something.

_Fuck._

Steve was going to burn every other stitch of Clint’s wardrobe and scatter the ashes. His roommate probably wouldn’t even care, anyway; and it would be worth it, if only to never obscure this view, again.

Clint’s skin was a mesmerizing patchwork of nonsensical tan lines and smatterings of freckles, criss-crossed everywhere by scars. Steve’s eyes tracked along the path he traced with his hands; over the pair of bullet wounds in Clint’s bicep, the jagged scar from a knife cut just below his ribs, the through and through paired holes that marked an arrow to the hip. It was amazing. _Clint_ was amazing – to have survived this – to have lived through this life, and now he was going to let Steve be a part of it and- Steve realized he’d just been staring, unmoving, long enough for Clint to start biting at the inside of his cheek.

The man above him flashed a brief, reassuring smile, and gently kneaded Steve’s shoulders. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want.”

 _Oh, no._ He could already see the nervous reluctance creeping back into Clint’s posture, eyes flicking to and away from Steve’s own as he began to lean back. Steve palmed Clint’s backside, pulling their hips flush, hoping the certainly in his voice would belie the tremulous squirming in his gut. “I want.”

•°☆°•

Two words should not have been able to convey that much, but, coupled with the hard pull of Steve’s hands against his ass, they carried a hell of a lot of weight. They set Clint hooking his hands behind Steve’s shoulders, pulling him upright and yanking at that stupidly tight t-shirt, hearing the slightest rip before he got it up and over Steve’s head. He sat back on his heels, looking at the man spread out beneath him, taking a moment to admire him; watching Steve’s flush blotch all the way up his cheeks, catching sight of the faint red teeth marks along the base of Steve’s throat.

He’d done that. _He_ had done _all_ of _that_ , and he wanted to do it, again, tonight. And tomorrow. Next week. _Forever._ Yeah… at least that long. Longer, if Steve would let him. Clint felt himself frowning, looked down to see Steve’s face starting to drop, and let a little sigh out of his nose. They still had their pants on; even if it was brief, this really wasn’t a _no clothes_ conversation, no matter how well things were going. Clint reached down, gently taking hold of Steve’s hand. “I’m too _old_ to mess around and... I don’t want to do a… a _fling,_ Steve.”

“You’re not _that_ much older than me, Clint.” Steve nodded up at him, all business as he replied. “I don’t either.”

“So what _do_ you want do?”

“Well… You?” Steve looked shyer than Clint could ever remember seeing him, earnest and hopeful, but still nervous, eyes flicking back and forth, to Clint and then away as he squeezed Clint’s fingers. “Us?”

Us. _Us._ The last of his apprehension loosed its hold with that one little word. It was more than Clint had hoped for, but exactly what he’d wanted. What they – _US!_ – wanted. That single word meant he could finally let go, stop holding himself back and just enjoy this closeness. Clint realized Steve was still fumbling through the rest of his answer – _“I… Fuck, what I meant was…”_ – so he leaned back down, until their foreheads were touching and his lips brushed Steve’s as he spoke. “Us sounds good.”

Clint cut off whatever else Steve might have been planning to say with another kiss, sinking down to stretch over his roommate as Steve’s arms wrapped around him.

•°☆°•

Steve still hadn’t said what he’d planned to, not really, not like he wanted, but, even so, Clint felt it too. He might not have been able to say it, but what he had said was certainly better than cursing at himself. Or a _headbutt._ And now he could finally breathe. Well, only through his nose – since his mouth was rather more pleasantly occupied – but at least Steve didn’t have to worry anymore. He didn’t have to constantly _think_ anymore; he could just be. Just feel. Which, with Clint’s lips on his own, Clint’s hands cradling his face, was really all Steve wanted. It was all he needed. _Clint_ was all Steve needed, and he needed to feel _all_ of him.

He clutched at Clint’s back, hooking one leg over Clint’s hip as calloused fingers curled in his hair, letting his own skim down over hard muscle and ridged scars. Steve felt like he was going to vibrate apart, shatter like glass if he didn’t get to touch every bit of Clint within reach. He broke the kiss, mirroring Clint’s earlier actions, lips and teeth working up that freckled throat and earning him a low, hitched hiss as he bit down.

Steve did it again, kissing and nipping along Clint’s neck, fingers slipping lower, past the small of his back. He reached the waistband of Clint’s pants, hesitating until Clint literally forced his hand. Clint pressed upward, rocking against him and sending sparks across his vision as Steve’s fingers slipped down to cup his ass, bare beneath the thin knit pyjama bottoms. “Fuh-!”

Clint ducked his chin, grinning as he wiggled back purposefully, then snapped his hips forward in a maddening play of pleasurable friction. “So…” Steve couldn’t be sure when he’d moved them, but he could feel Clint’s hands at his hips, fingers teasing along the waistband of his jeans. “Off?”

“Off.” Steve nodded automatically. Though he felt a quick spike of regret at having to let Clint go, he was past it soon enough.

Clint sat back on his heels, pushing the purple lounge pants down to his knees, then tipping back seated so that he could yank them off. Clint gave a triumphant, half-voiced _“Yes!”_ as he pulled his feet free and tossed his pants onto the floor, turning hungry eyes back on him while Steve was still trying to process it all.

Steve fumbled his way out of his jeans, fighting them down his hips along with his shorts – internally balking at the wet spot he’d left in them – while trying to not fall off the bed. He ended up getting them nearly to his ankles before Clint was back atop him, both of them kicking at the wad of fabric tangling his feet, until it finally fell somewhere over the edge of the bed.

Hands grasped his hips, Clint hauling Steve up off the bed to meet him as he thrust down, grinding their erections together, wrenching moans out of both of them. _Oh_ , but Clint felt amazing – hot skin and solid muscle – here and real as they rutted against each other. Steve hung in Clint’s grip through a few more thrusts before he planted his feet on the mattress, hips driving up in counterpoint. Steve sank his teeth into his lower lip, stifling the punctuated gasps he kept squeaking out. It felt amazing, but it wasn’t _enough_ ; he needed more, needed Clint closer and kissing him.

His roommate – and, _damnit_ , thankfully not just _that_ anymore – must have had the same idea. Right as Steve pulled himself up, Clint leaned down, knocking their foreheads together, and making Steve see both kinds of stars at once.

Clint shook his head with a soft wince – _“Fuck.”_ – and Steve couldn’t hold in his giggle. _So much for avoiding headbutts._

“Yeah, a pinch on the ass would’ve been enough.” The man above him grinned, pinching Steve’s right butt-cheek just about the time he realized he’d said that aloud.

Steve felt rightly embarrassed, but, for the moment, he didn’t care. He looped his arms over Clint’s shoulders, wrapping his other leg around those strong hips, and pulled Clint down for that kiss, anyway.

•°☆°•

Steve Rogers was going to kill him, and, truthfully, Clint was absolutely fine with that. Steve’s hands were all over him, and Clint felt certain he was trying his damnedest to suck the life from Clint straight out of his mouth. Again, not that Clint wasn’t reveling in it all – Steve, naked, here, with _him,_ rocking up against his cock and sounding fucking delicious while he did – but he needed _more_. After all, he _had_ promised to give Steve everything he wanted, and the man writhing against him had been thrillingly honest about exactly what he had in mind.

Clint broke the kiss, having to push against Steve’s shoulders to put any distance between them, sucking in breath even while Steve kept trying to tug him back down. “Steve-” Clint groaned, briefly hating that Steve was such a quick study as his legs locked behind Clint’s back. He got himself as upright as he could, struggling, at a disadvantage for leverage and too damn horny to do anything about it. “Steve, I need to get stuff.”

Below him, Steve shook his head, voicing something half-growl, half-whine, that sounded vaguely like _“No,”_ as he yanked Clint back down, setting his mouth against Clint’s collarbone.

“ _Steve…”_ Clint shuddered, hips stuttering, but shook his head. “We can do things this way, but I... I’d like to be inside you.”

Steve stilled, and Clint looked down. Maybe Steve’s actual ability was enhanced blushing; Clint honestly couldn’t figure out how he could have gotten any redder, but he did. Steve relaxed, hands sliding from Clint’s shoulders down his arms, legs loosening just enough that Clint could push up onto all fours above him.

Clint couldn’t resist kissing Steve’s half open mouth as he scooted out of bed – _“Be right back.”_ – tripping over their cast off clothing as he scrambled back into his room. He tipped the plywood top off his makeshift nightstand, upending the crates beneath with a clatter, but snatching up that so important tube and the foiled packets from the lower one. Clint almost ran into the bathroom by mistake, knocking his knee as he abruptly darted to the left. Still, he made it back to Steve’s bed; intact, aside from his dignity, and slid back in against his roommate. “You sure?”

When Steve’s answer was to yank him in for a kiss while making a grab for the lube, Clint squirmed back down the bed, kneeling between his legs. Tube in hand, he took a moment to just admire the view. Steve was sprawled out across the bed, cock half slick and hard where it lay in the crook of his thigh, eyes wide and needy. He pressed his heels into the bed, eyes never leaving Clint’s face as he lifted his hips in a silent invitation.

He flipped the cap off the tube, squeezing the lube out onto his hand and settling back between Steve’s legs.

•°☆°•

Clint pressed into him with that slick finger, and Steve dug his hands into the sheets. It had been a _while_ – and _that_ was an understatement – but Clint was more than making up for it; curling his other hand around Steve’s cock, drawing out a string of nonsense that was Steve’s best attempt at encouragement.

After a few moments of frantic, babble-laden squirming, Steve felt the push of a second finger, just as Clint pressed his thumb up behind his balls – No one had _ever- Fuck! Yes, yes, yes_ – and Steve vaguely realized that he’d been reduced to half-voiced moaning, needy squeaks punctuating the movement of his lover’s hands. Clint did it again, and Steve shuddered, heard himself groan as he fought to keep his eyes open. Clint was being so careful and thorough and – _Damnit!_ – now was _not_ the time for that, not when Steve was already so close to coming undone just from _this!_

He whimpered, and Clint paused, long enough for Steve to register that it was purposeful. It took him a bit, but he finally got his eyes to focus on Clint’s face, his roommate grinning up from where his cheek rested on Steve’s hip. He tried, and failed, to ask a reasonable question. "Mhuh?"

His roommate winked, sliding his hand to the base of Steve’s cock; then that smirking mouth was wrapping around him, and the last brain-cell that was keeping Steve breathing promptly died. Clint added a third finger, curling them all as he sucked, and Steve bucked, kicking into – and partially _through_ – the wall plaster. “Clint-!” He felt Clint’s mouth pull off of him with a soft pop, as the other man chuckled against his hip.

“Guess I’ll fix that, too.” With his other hand, Clint rubbed lightly at Steve’s side. “You alright?”

“’m fine!” Steve nodded, humping back against Clint’s fingers. “C’mon…”

“Somebody’s in a hurry.” There was still that hint of laughter in his roommate’s voice as he spread his fingers.

“ _Yes!?”_ Of _course,_ he was going to be in a hurry! How could Clint not understand that Steve had been waiting – watching and wanting and _waiting!_ – for _so_ _damn long!_

“Okay,” Clint nodded, reaching for something on the bed. “Just let me-”

Steve heard the crinkle of foil. “Clint, I…” He reached down, grasping at Clint’s wrist as he shook his head.”Kinda wanted to feel you... _just_ you?” Steve’s face was on fire as he tugged Clint’s hand, trying to pull him closer. “Unless you don’t wan-” His own groan cut off his words just then, Clint’s fingers slipping out of him with a slick tug, leaving him horribly empty all at once.

He reached for Clint, arms sliding around those strong shoulders as Clint crawled up his body, lifting his legs, pushing his knees up and out. Clint settled between his thighs, cock nestled up against Steve’s ass cheeks, dropping one hand between them. Steve felt the head of his cock nudging, pressing against him.

Clint tilted his head sideways, shoulders lifted in the barest of shrugs. “Steve?”

He nodded, and kept nodding, eyes closing, head bobbing unthinkingly as Clint thrust, as Clint’s cock pushed into him, past that tight ring of muscle in one long steady slide. Steve clutched at his back, losing himself in the feel of Clint around and within him, but relishing the near burning fullness, the comfort of being held so close and tightly.

Steve had mostly adjusted – legs hooked high against Clint’s sides, face flush against the pulse at his throat – and was just remembering he needed to breath as Clint’s lips grazed his forehead. He leaned in close, nuzzling along Steve’s cheek, nudging his face upward until they were nose to nose. Clint kissed him, lips a slow, almost lazy pressure against his own, tongue dragging the roof of his mouth, coaxing another whimper out of Steve before Clint’s mouth left his.

Steve opened his eyes, wanting to say something, overwhelmed and overfilled and overflowing; he managed a single word. “Hi.”

“H-Hey.” Clint’s voice wavered as he spoke; breath unsteady, hands trembling where they grasped Steve’s sides. His eyes were bright, even in the darkened room, blue and grey and beautiful, even under the sweat soaked bangs sticking to his forehead. “Nearly everything you wanted, right?”

“Nearly?”

“You _did_ say _’ride.’”_ Those words and a flash of teeth were the only warnings Steve got before the room tipped, again, and he was blinking _down_ into those same gorgeous eyes, as gravity and the momentum of being flipped forced Clint’s cock deeper. Steve bowed forward, curling in on himself, voice caught between a squawk and a moan. “Shit!”

“Oh, fuck…” At least he wasn’t alone in his overwhelm. Clint was rigid beneath him; neck arched and eyes screwed shut, head turned to the side as he pressed his cheek into the pillow.

Steve wriggled his hips, shifting side to side until his legs were more comfortable. He lifted himself, barely moving on Clint’s cock before dropping his hips back down.

Beneath him, Clint hissed, blinking hazy, wide blown eyes up at him. A dopey, lopsided smile slid up onto his face as his hands came to rest on Steve’s thighs, fingers squeezing.

Settling his own hands over Clint’s, Steve pushed off with his knees.

•°☆°•

The bed wasn’t _really_ even big enough for Steve, let alone both of them. It took a few tries, a bit of maneuvering, to find the right position and settle into a steady rhythm. Still they got there, fumbling and frantic and _fucking perfect;_ Steve’s hands braced on the headboard, pushing up for leverage, Clint’s firm on his hips, tugging Steve back down onto his cock every time his lover pressed up off the bed.

Clint could already hear the blood rushing in his ears, feel his pulse up in his throat, too hard and too fast. Maybe it was because it had been too long since he’d been with someone else, too many months of nothing but his imagination and his own hand. Maybe because they had drawn this out, not just tonight, but for weeks, stoking a heady, overwhelming tension that had finally found release. Or maybe it was just because it was Steve, fingers denting the wood of the bed-frame, chin tucked to his chest as he sputtered out moans and bounced on Clint’s cock. It was so good – _too good_ – and Clint’s whole body tensed, fingers clenched, toes curling against the bedding, fighting not to let it be over this soon.

Steve moved steadily, hips undulating with each thrust, but his breath wavered, rushing past trembling lips, his lashes fluttering where they brushed his cheeks, nearing his own end. Just needing the slightest push.

Clint gave that to him, letting go of one hip to take Steve in hand, stroking in time with his thrusts.

Above him, Steve’s eyes snapped open, shocked and startled, voice catching in his throat like he was choking. He kept moving, rocking between Clint’s hand and cock, jaw quivering as he came with a shuddering cry. Steve’s arms shook, buckled, and he pitched forward, half collapsing atop Clint, ass clenching, spasming around him.

Biting his lip, Clint kept moving, fingers digging bruises along Steve’s thighs. It wasn’t long – only a handful of frantic, snapping thrusts – before he followed over that edge. Clint bowed up off the bed, lifting them both and forcing a clucked gasp out of his roommate, before dropping back onto the mattress, groaning low in his throat.

He lay, unfocused eyes staring upward, Steve panting against his neck, as the night settled back in around them, dark and quiet, only disturbed by their own heavy breathing.

“Steve?” Petting at sweaty blond hair, Clint brushed Steve’s bangs aside, stroking down behind his ear and along his jaw. “Y’okay?”

“Mmhmm...” Steve didn’t lift his head, but he nodded, head bumping under Clint’s chin as he mouthed a wet kiss there. “’m fine. Mor’n fine.”

“Good.” Clint relaxed, letting himself sink into the bedding, sated and boneless. Steve stayed curled on his chest, fingers rubbing idle strokes along his neck and shoulder, down his arm and then back up. It tickled a little, but he was too blissed out to care, really.

There was another kiss, this one along the edge of his jaw, and then his roommate was looking back at him, all blue eyes and flushed cheeks, just barely giggling.

“What?”

“I can still _kinda_ feel my legs.”

Clint snerked, hauling Steve down for a sloppy kiss.

•°☆°•

They were both on their sides by the time they finally pulled apart, both sticky and sore. Steve didn’t care a damn bit. He tucked his head up over Clint’s shoulder, humming contentedly as strong arms pulled him in close, rubbing down his back.

Clint’s mouth dragged along his cheek, not quite kissing. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Like I said, more than fine. Way more than. So much more than.” Words were difficult. Actions were so much easier. Steve turned, chasing Clint’s mouth, teeth catching his lower lip; he snatched one quick kiss, then another. “You?”

“Mmhmm… What you said, but also tired. Really fucki-” Clint cut himself off with a chuckle that stretched into a yawn as he nosed in against Steve’s neck. “Really _fucking_ tired.”

Steve was, too, not just because he hadn’t slept since the day before yesterday. Still, tucking in on the smaller mattress with the wet spots wasn’t all that appealing, even if he was exhausted. “We can move to the other bed? ’s bigger, and it’ll stay darker in there.”

“How would you know?” Clint’s breath tickled along the shell of his ear. “You been sleepin’ in my bed, Cap?”

Clint dropping that, with his lips skimming the sensitive skin along Steve’s jaw, was enough to set him squirming, again, even as worn out as he was. “Maybe…?”

“Bullshit on the _maybe_ …” Teeth nipped high on Steve’s neck before Clint nuzzled him. “Kinda stalker hot, though. How you kept sleeping in it when I was gone.”

Still shocked to have been found out, Steve parroted Clint’s words back at him. “How would _you_ know?”

“Hospital corners on the under sheet. And my pillow smelled like you…” Clint took a deep breath against his shoulder, humming softly. “Not as good as the real thing.”

“Yeah.” _Truer words…_ Steve nodded as they cuddled together, closing his eyes, again, still feeling little pinpricks in his knees.

“‘s a good idea, though.” Steve got a last kiss on the forehead as Clint levered up on his arms, pushing to half-seated. Clint scooted backward off the bed, looking far steadier than Steve felt as he stood. He leaned back over the bed, slipping an arm under Steve’s back, gently lifting. “C’mon, then.”

“Alri-!” Steve thought he was just getting a bit of help sitting up, until Clint’s other arm slid under his knees, and he found himself in the air. “-i-ight! Shit, Clint, put me down! You’re gonna hurt yourself!”

“Nope.” Grey-blue eyes crinkling at the corners, he shook his head. “I’m not the guy who could only _kinda_ feel his legs.” Clint shifted him upwards just enough to kiss the end of Steve’s nose. “Need to see my poor, jelly-legs roommate safely to bed.”

“That-!” Steve really _hadn’t_ been sure he’d be steady on his feet, but he didn’t need to be carried. He could’ve leaned, and that had been a few minutes ago, anyway. This wasn’t necessary at all because, “I’m fine now. Put me down.”

Clint turned, stepping gingerly around their scattered clothing, walking back towards the main bedroom. “Sorry; can’t follow that order, Captain Rogers.”

Maybe it was some unknown side-effect of the serum making him recover so quickly, or maybe it was just the effect of being well and truly sated with Clint carrying him to bed, but Steve squirmed at the hard pulse that phrase sent straight to his groin. “Call me that, again?”

Cradled as he was in Clint’s arms, his reaction didn’t go unnoticed. Clint waggled his eyebrows with a knowing wink. “Can’t do that too often. Your uniform is tight enough as it is, _Captain_ Rogers.”

“You been checking me out in uniform, _Agent_ Barton?”

“Yeah, me and every other sentient thing with a libido.” Clint huffed, but set him gently on the right side of the bed. He stretched out just left of the centre of the mattress, pulling Steve back in beside to him. He settled one hand at the small of Steve’s back and rubbed gently, fingers barely grazing the curve of his backside. “If we could just figure out how to weaponize your ass…”

Steve laughed at that and tipped his butt up into Clint’s palm. “That would probably mean sharing.”

“Hmph.” Clint grumbled, wrapping both arms around Steve, stifling a yawn. “Never mind, then.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

By the muted chorus of steadily beeping car horns, he knew that it must have been morning. Steve didn’t want to get up. It was still mostly dark, and – even if he was _unreasonably_ stiff – he was warm and comfortable. He didn’t have anywhere he _had_ to be, except right here, trying to get some more rest. Steve scooted back into the wall, but it wiggled away. He tried, again. The wall grunted softly, but kept moving. Steve tried a third time; wriggling hips and ass backwards first, shoulders following as he tried to brace against the plaster. The wall held, mostly, but slid an arm around his waist, just as it brushed lips along the spot behind his ear.

“It’s a king, but it’s not _that_ big.” Clint’s chuckle rumbled against his cheek. “You tryna push me outta bed, Smedes?”

Steve was apologizing before he’d even managed to open his eyes. “Oh, crap. I’m sorry, Cli-” He rolled onto his back, just as the same lips that had been kissing his ear cut him off. Steve let himself relax back into the mattress, tugging Clint over top of him, relishing the languid kiss. He could get used to this sort of morning.

•°☆°•

Clint’s ears ached, but keeping the aids in had been worth it, to get to hear Steve first thing when he woke up; those first raspy words, the stifled little moan when Clint kissed him silent, the soft, wet suck of their lips pulling apart. He lay beside Steve, head propped in one hand, brushing Steve’s bangs off his forehead with the other. “You slept in.”

“Huh?” He blinked muzzily back, and Clint kissed his forehead.

“It’s seven-o-three.” Still, to Clint’s mind, an unreasonably early hour for any normal person, but a regular lazy morning for Steve. “Late for you.”

“Just less early, since _somebody_ wore me out.” Steve’s fingers settled on his cheek and tugged him gently closer. “C’mere?”

“Steve…” He reached up, lifting Steve’s hand carefully off of his face, but tangling their fingers. “I… I gotta say something…”

Steve’s hand tensed in his grip. His jaw tightened, but he held Clint’s gaze and nodded.

Staring back into those guarded blue eyes, Clint took a deep breath and started talking. “I like making you breakfast. And seeing your art on the fridge, and checking on you before I go to bed. And…” He had to blink, and he had to take another breath, but he _had to_ finish. “And I like knowing you’ve always got my six, and coming home when you’re here, and kissing you, and… I like your everything – and _you,_ more than just like – and I-” Clint could feel the prickles of a flush on his cheeks as his fingers clenched on Steve’s hand. “So, I guess, if you-?”

“Yes!” Steve blurted it out like a shot, squeezing back, but looking down. “Yes, yeah. Yeah.” He nodded, seemingly more to himself than in answer. “I’d like to come home to you, too, Clint, if you’ll let me.”

Clint released the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “Yeah, please, it’s just, with all the-” He shrugged; there was just too much that might get in the way. “With work and stuff, I won’t always be here. Won’t always be able to tell you where I am.”

Steve drew their hands up to his lips, kissing Clint’s knuckles, disarmingly gentle. “I know. I won’t either.”

“And I’m not…” _Good enough_ still echoed from the back of his mind, but Clint pushed it down. Steve had said _yes,_ and – even if he could keep a secret or fudge the truth – Steve couldn’t outright _lie_ for shit; Clint would just have to believe him. Although… “I’m messy, and kind of a slob... and I snore.”

“Yeah, you are, and – oh, _yeah_ – you _do.”_ He couldn’t even feign insult when Steve laughed like that, no matter that it was at his expense. “But I’m used to it. It’s comforting; makes you easy to find.”

“The mess? Or the snoring?”

“Yes? Both?” Steve shook his head and shrugged, still smiling. “And it’s not like I can talk, right?” He chuckled, voice dropping, softly teasing. “I have it on good authority that normal people do not use forks to eat peanut butter.”

“Normal people don’t push their…” Their _what?_ Yes, they were roommates, still, maybe by _technicality_ , but… _Fuck it!_ “… their roommates, or their _boyfriends_ , out of king-sized beds, either.” Clint’s own teasing got an embarrassed nod in response, that purposeful phrasing earning him a sweet, shy glance through blond lashes as Steve ducked his head. Still, Clint didn’t seem to be able to shut up, to completely turn off, the little bit of his brain awake enough to come up with worst case scenarios. “But they also don’t wake up fighting some days, and, well, they’re usually a lot better than I am about actually _wearing_ pants.”

“The, uh… _combative_ wake-ups aren’t a problem – keep me on my toes, right? – though the pants thing might mean adjusting for...” Steve trailed off, glancing away from him, again, and Clint could tell he was chewing on the inside of his jaw. “Adjusting for _delays.”_

“Delays?”

Smiling through a slowly-spreading blush, Steve cupped his hands against Clint’s butt, pulling him down as he pressed upward, already half-hard, against Clint’s leg.

“Ah.” Clint shifted over him, slotting their hips fully together and rocking into a slow grind. “I think I can get used to handling _delays.”_ He smiled, cheeks scrunching up the edges of his eyes as he leaned down for another lazy kiss.

Steve met him halfway, and Clint sighed happily down against his lips as Steve’s tongue pressed into his mouth.

Clint could _definitely_ get used to _this._

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•


	16. Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe, Clint and Steve realize, it's not only the dog who is Lucky.
> 
> Or: Wherein minor vengeance is visited upon certain Avengers, while others lose sleep over terrifying realities.
> 
> Or: Clint may be happy, but now Hawkeye knows too much.
> 
> Or: An overload of sap and derp, including many times Lucky was there for it, one time he was not, and one time where he was the cause of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> •°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•
> 
> Well, this is the end, folks. There are too many subtitles for this chapter because I just couldn't pick one before to go out on. We’ve had a good run, but this story now comes to a close. Thanks for sticking with, and hanging on through sixteen chapters of madness. (Remember when this was supposed to be a five chapter long story? No? Me neither. _*chuckles*_ ) Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, and followed. I hope you’ve enjoyed following on this journey as much as I’ve enjoyed leading.
> 
> •°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Steve hadn’t even known he _was_ a bed hog until he started regularly sharing a bed. Clint’swas the biggest bed he’d ever slept in, and he usually would have been curled up next to the wall, just because it felt safe, easier to relax when he was more protected, but… Well, it seemed that the other man’s presence was more comforting than any wall, and that meant Steve was finally _actually_ sleeping well. It also meant he was moving as he slept, wriggling closer to his bedmate all night. Combined with Clint’s habit of sprawling across every inch of reachable space, it had made waking up an _adventure_ for the past four days, with at least one of them rousing dead-limbed and tingly. Or falling off the bed. Or being _thrown_ off the bed which – _thankfully_ – had ended with him landing mostly on his feet.

Steve eyed the shallow dent – just barely bigger than a fist – in the thin strip of wall between the doors to the solar and bathroom. _Oh, well._ They needed to do some home improvement anyway, right? Plenty of things to patch, or upgrade; maybe even get a bigger water heater. It would be good practice for… _the future._ Steve smiled up at the ceiling. It was still a giddy thing, new and exciting, urgent and- No… no, that was something else, and _that_ meant getting out of bed; definitely the _second_ most complicated part about sharing a bed.

 _Especially_ of sharing one with _Clint._

Steve wiggled his toes. No worries about falling into the bathroom _this_ morning, at least. With exaggerated care, he untangled his arms from around Clint’s chest, feeling the fizzing prickle as blood rushed back into the left. Steve eased toward the side of the bed, getting one leg off, one foot _nearly_ onto the floor, when fingers brushed against his arm.

Clint had scooted muzzily after him, eyes still closed, hands reaching for his receding warmth. “Nnyoo… Shmeesh… c’mback.” He lifted his head from where it had been smashed into the pillow, muzzily blinking one eye open.

Steve kissed his temple, trying to tuck Clint back in and still get himself out of the bed. He finally got both hands free, gently pushing Clint’s away long enough to make two fists. _‘C OFFEE.’_

That magic word was all it took.

Clint nodded, cheeks lifted in a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Kay.” His head flopped back onto the pillow; he was snoring before Steve had even managed to pull on a proper pair of pants.

After a quick run through the bathroom, Steve padded down the first six steps, carefully jumping the gap where the broken one still hung on, held up only by a few bent screws. They’d fix it soon enough. It had only been a couple of days, anyway.

He flipped the switch on the coffee pot, lifting his tablet from the counter, planning to clear his mail, but-

_Thunk._

Something knocked into the door.

_Whud!_

_Slammed_ into the door. It was – Steve checked the coffee-maker clock – six forty-two. There was no good reason _anyone_ should be knocking on their door this early, let alone-

_WHAM!_

-bashing at it like they were trying to break it down. The heavy knocking kept up, accompanied by a strange scrabble at the doorknob. Nobody but Clint should have _ever_ been picking their lock, and his boyfriend was upstairs, so…

Steve grabbed his shield on the way to the door. He checked the peephole, but saw nothing. The solid thunking sound repeated, lower this time, and he stepped back. Shield braced on his left arm, head held low, Steve opened the door, and was immediately assailed-!

… by a facefull of winking mutt thoroughly intent on giving him a full dental check with his tongue.

“Lucky! Down! Off! Dog..!” Steve tried, but eighty bounding pounds of drool and fur that he _couldn’t_ punch, coupled with managing the shield _and_ closing the door? There was no _fucking way._ He ended up landing on his ass, both of Lucky’s paws on his abs as the dog licked all over his face. “Good morning to you, too.”

He gently shoved at the dog, and Lucky finally sat down, giving Steve a moment to wipe his face on his shirt. When he looked back up, he saw that there was a folded note pinned to the dog’s collar. Steve honestly couldn’t figure out _how_ it was still attached, all things considered. He unclasped the safety-pin, unfolding it, knowing exactly who it was from; dark purple ink on lavender paper was pretty fucking telling.

_Hawkeye_  
_Sorry to pull a Steve and drop the dog, but something came up._  
_Also, if Steve fucks up, again, I’m nailing his ass in the bad way.(Also the rest of him; full on Mad Jack style.)_

There was a little stick figure drawing underneath the words. By the circled star he assumed to be his shield, it seemed to be scribble of stick-figure Captain America shot full of arrows. He even had little Xs for eyes. Steve snorted a chuckle, and kept reading.

_Also, if you fuck up, I’m taking Lucky back, then telling Natasha, after I knock you around the gym for a couple hours._  
_Be happy… but BE QUIET ABOUT IT._  
_~ Hawkeye_

It was probably the closest thing to a blessing he was going to get after all of the… _idiocy_ that had gotten them here, but Steve was fine with that. Lucky that the only _fucking up_ had been, been… Well, there was no one awake to see him blush and push his face into his hands. At least, no one but the dog, who had finally gotten up off of him, and didn’t care that Steve was giggling to himself about his boyfriend in the middle of their kitchen.

_Boyfriend…_

Damn, but that felt good!

The coffee maker beeped, and Lucky nudged at his face, again. “Yeah?”

The dog padded to the stairs, getting to the fourth and then whining. _Right_. Lucky knew the routine; coffee being made meant Clint could get up. Not that he _would_ , but that he might, which was enough for dog brain.

Pushing up off the floor, Steve stepped up behind him, hand settling between Lucky’s ears. It would take some maneuvering, but… If he could get the dog past the gap _first…_ Lucky never really had issues getting _up_ the stairs, after all.

•°☆°•

Clint could smell the coffee, but it was too early, and he knew it. He rolled back over. Getting back to sleep had never been difficult, and cuddling up in the exceedingly warm spot Steve left made it even easier. He nodded off quickly enough, but – when the edge of the bed dipped – he knew he’d only gotten another twenty minutes, at best. Clint stretched, rolling onto his back. It was too damn early, but some things were worth the ungodly hour. Especially those slow morning kisses. _Those_ were _worth_ waking up for.

“Mornf-!”

Well, he _had_ wanted a kiss, and this _was_ a kiss, though frantic, and furry, and far too heavy on the _tongue_. Clint sputtered, trying to focus enough to get Lucky to back away. Once the dog retreated, bounding off to make a mess of the bed in the solar, he finally noticed the other blond in the room; the one that gave far more preferable kisses.

Steve was leaning just inside the doorway, in black sweats with _HAWKEYE_ printed in purple down the leg and one of his usual too-tight smediums,a cup of coffee in each hand and his tablet under his arm.

Clint huffed, shaking his head. He patted the bed beside him, scooting further up to lean against the wall with his arm out. “You think you’re cute.”

Steve smiled into his shrug, but sat back down on the bed, handing both cups of coffee over to him. Flashing a little wink, he carefully signed back. _‘MAYBE. GOOD MORNING.’_

Clint shook his head, arm wrapping around his boyfriend’s shoulder. There wasn’t any _maybe_ about it. Steve had tucked in against his side, head resting on Clint’s shoulder and knees drawn up as he cuddled closer. He slipped one arm behind Clint’s back, already thumbing through his tablet, again. He probably expected Clint to pick his coffee back up, to spend the next forty minutes waking up, drifting in and out between sips of coffee and staring at him, but… Having six-stone of dog land on you was a pretty surefire way to wake up anyone, and – though he did take one quick sip of coffee to swish out the residual taste of _dog_ –Clint had _other_ plans.

Reaching around, he plucked the tablet out of Steve’s hands, grinning at the perplexed head tilt, the mouthed _‘Clint?’_ that he didn’t need to hear to recognize. Tipping Steve’s chin up, Clint pressed in, closing the space, feeling Steve’s moan on his tongue. _Good morning_ , indeed.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Clint ran his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t cut it in a month, and it was getting shaggy. Although, with the awful bedhead and the dark circles from a three day training mission (read: green agent disaster camp), he could probably just show up and pass as a zombie for Halloween next week. He gave up trying to tame the bird’s nest on his head, yanking on a pair of pants and padding down the stairs. The fifth step – which, had been _expertly_ repaired by none other than himself – offered not even the hint of a squeak. The _fourth_ , however… Honestly, given Steve’s penchant for just hoisting him up the stairs – not a complaint, just a fact – Clint would probably be better off just re-treading the entire run. Especially since the new water heater was already upstairs.

He padded into the kitchen, gulping back half the cup of coffee left for him beside the machine before slipping up behind Steve’s chair. Clint draped one arm around him, chin resting on Steve’s head. “Morning, sunrise buddy.”

“That what the kids are calling it now?” Steve leaned back long enough to smile up at him, then went back to reading. “Also, it's nine thirty. You missed the _sunrise_ by about three hours, _buddy.”_

“Mmm... not all of us slap the chickens awake, but, fine, good morning... _sweetheart.”_ He kissed behind Steve's swiftly reddening ear, giving his boyfriend a light hug.

“Clint?”

“Hmm?”

Steve took his coffee – one hand on the cup with the other grasping Clint's wrist – setting the mug on the table as he slid his chair back. He tugged, guiding Clint closer and down, until he was pulled fully into Steve's lap. Steve's other hand settled on the back of his neck, this time only holding Clint in place as he closed the few inches between them. His boyfriend was swiftly working his way back to having a full beard, and it was a little scratchy; still, the coffee flavoured insistence of Steve's mouth more than made up for it as far as Clint was concerned.

Steve leaned back, smile balanced halfway between shy and obnoxiously smug. “Good morning.”

“Mmhmm. Very good.” Clint could have pressed right back into those kisses, but he was learning that, even now, Steve was oddly shy about some things, like pet names, so he wouldn’t push… much. Clint picked his coffee back up, leaning into Steve's shoulder, and sipped. “I live here now.”

“You've lived here for years.”

“No, here.” Clint wiggled his ass on Steve's thigh with a grin and bent to rest his head on Steve's collarbone, listening to the steady beat beneath the surface. “I live _here_ now.”

“Yeah. Guess you do.” Steve's arm wrapped around him, reaching for his own coffee left-handed as he went back to reading, letting Clint work his way to full wakefulness still curled in his lap.

Even after getting up for a second cup, Clint still found himself settling into that embrace, although Steve had pulled Clint's chair around to the side, giving him somewhere to prop his feet. It still felt strange to be able to do this – surreal and all-encompassing – but Clint was learning to believe it. It wasn't that everything had slid into an idealized perfection; but, for only being two weeks new, it was _their_ sort of perfect. The clumsy, awkward, overloud – _shit!_ I think we put another hole in _that_ – sort, but still, pretty much their sort of perfect. Especially now that it _was_ theirs: their apartment, their bed, their life. Sometimes, their wardrobe, if Clint was in a hurry or Steve wasn’t looking, which hadn’t worked out the first time his boyfriend had wound up in Clint’s jeans, but – hey – at least he could keep making Stevie-shortpants jokes, right?

It was a strange sort of normal, but they were living pretty fucking awkward lives even before this. The sort that saw them regularly fighting interdimensional vermin or – in Clint’s case – having random people dropping by his apartment at ridiculous hours on a Sunday.

There was a perfunctory knock on the door before it opened, a familiar voice echoing in as a sweatered arm waved. “You naked, Hawkeye?”

“Not this time, Hawkeye.”

Kate poked just her head around the door “You’re both clothed _and_ there’s coffee? That’s a miracle. Good morning, Cap.”

“Hawkeye.”

She closed the door, going through a quick round of petting and pushing away Lucky before getting herself a cup of coffee, nodding to them from her spot beside the sink. “Glad to see you two are getting along.” She finished her coffee, reaching forward to take Clint’s cup, refilling both before handing his back. Kate eyed them both, brow quirking as she sipped this second cup more slowly. “So, sparing me the lurid details – ya know, since I wanna _sleep_ some time this century – what happened?”

Steve’s arm tightened slightly around Clint’s shoulders and he coughed. Clint could feel him turning; Steve was probably looking off out the window as he shrugged.

He sighed, trying his best to glare up at his fellow Hawkeye, but only getting a smug little head waggle in return. Clint rolled his eyes. He could be honest. _Kinda._ “Nothing all that crazy, Kate. Normal stuff. We, um… _talked_ , and Steve finally put his foot down-” Steve snorted behind him. “- and I’ll stop there to, uh… _spare_ you.”

Kate blinked, took a sip of coffee, and then set it down long enough to sign _‘LIAR’_ at him. “Secrets suck, Hawkeye.”

This was too easy; she had set herself up for it. Clint knew he really ought to be a little nicer to her – Kate probably hadn’t started the little bet on his personal life, and she’d been the only one to actually _admit_ it existed so far – but she had walked right into this one. “I suck, too, Hawkeye.”

“Gross.”

“Smedes! Kate called me gross.”

Having seemingly decided to ignore the two of them – even with Clint still sitting halfway _in his lap_ – Steve glanced up from his reading. “You are gross. And you do, but you’re good at it.” Steve smiled at him, softening the little sting, but also making Clint wonder; there was an edge to that smile, and Steve was _awfully_ vindictive when he wanted to be.

“He _is_ good at being gross.”

“Well, yeah…” Steve nodded, turning away to look back at Kate. He set down his tablet, picking up his coffee cup as that same smile morphed into a wicked grin, just as the mug came up to his lips. “But I _meant_ he was good at sucking.”

His boyfriend left that to hang in the air as he slowly sipped his horribly adulterated coffee, staring Kate down where she stood beside the sink.

Kate gawped, looking very much like a bug-eyed fish for a moment, jaw working in nearly-silent, sputtering horror as she looked from Steve’s smirk down to Clint’s face. Eventually, she managed to squeeze a few words out, high and reedy. “This was a terrible fucking idea.”

“Probably.” Steve finally cut the stare, pressing a light kiss to Clint’s cheek and going back to his reading, as if nothing untoward had just occurred.

Kate looked back at Clint, simultaneously pleading and disgusted, fingers moving swiftly. _‘W HAT?’_

_‘F UNNY.’_

“Not funny at all, Hawkeye.” She sculled her mug, almost slamming it down onto the counter. “I’m glad you’re both so cute-sgustingly happy, but I meant it about that therapy bill, Clint.”

“Oh, I know.” Clint knew he should stop himself, too; he really should be nice, and not tease Kate any further. He _should_ … but he wasn’t going to. Carefully, Clint slid Steve’s arm off his shoulder, slipping out of his boyfriend’s lap. They needed another pot of coffee now, anyway, and this would give him a better view of both Steve and Kate while he was talking. Clint dumped the old grounds, added fresh coffee and more water, and started the drip. He gave Kate a light pat on the shoulder, trying to keep the smirk off of his face. “And – c’mon, Katie-Kate – you don’t have to worry about that-”

“Good to know-”

“- because Steve is really more of a talker than anything else.”

“Wha-”

“Although- I mean, at _certain_ angles…” Clint grinned back at her, watching her fall back into terrified gawking, before looking back at the man sitting at his kitchen table. As much fun as seeing Kate’s full freakout absolutely might be, Steve's blush was one of the loveliest things he _could_ see, especially now, when Steve cut his eyes over to Clint’s for a brief second, only to look away, sipping his coffee, trying not to grin like the big little shit he was.

Beside him, Kate sucked in a massive gulp of air as she turned on her heel. “So I'm just going to go yeet myself into the dumpster now, hopefully get a concussion and forget all of this, maybe go buy some brain bleach if I survive. I hope neither of you _dies in a fire_ while I’m gone or anything.”

Clint waited until she had her hand on the door before calling out, “Katie-Kate?”

She paused, but didn’t look back, already turning the knob. “What?”

“You owe me, and I’ll need help with the others.”

Kate was smart; Clint knew that _she knew_ exactly what he meant.He could see her draw herself up a moment, was prepared for her to turn around and yell, but she relaxed back down with a loud huff. “Fine. I’ll get a board ready. But they better be worth it.”

“You bet. Just some friendly fun.”

“Fun?” The door slammed on her barked out, “Hah!”

Steve gave him a quizzical look, but Clint just smiled back and poured himself another cup of coffee.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Steve’s phone buzzed on his easel, but he ignored it. Today was his day off, probably the last for a long while, since the crazies seemed to use Halloween as an excuse to start world ending schemes and general stupidity every year. At least they were consistent. Besides, the phone wasn’t flashing any of the myriad urgent warning screens, so it could wait. He went back to his sketching, glancing up at his model, who winked sleepily back at him from the bed. The phone buzzed, one, twice more, then three times in rapid succession. Maybe not an emergency, but definitely annoying.

He wiped his hand on his pants, smearing charcoal across the denim before eyeing the blond mess sprawled lazily across his bed. His phone buzzed again as he spoke. “You better stay _right_ there.”

Lucky huffed, tail wagging, but stayed still – _What a good boy!_ – as Steve walked across the solar to pick his phone up. There were, he took a moment to count, and… There were _twelve_ new messages on his phone.

_Buzz._

Scratch that, now there were thirteen. All from within the last twenty-five minutes, and all of them from Sam. Steve blinked, scrolling through the one-sided conversation.

 **NerdBird**  
[Okay.]  
[Fine.]  
[I admit it.]  
[I made the book, and I got a cut, too.]  
[I’m sorry, Steve. I’m not even gonna keep the damn money.]  
[Check your email; I already sent you an apology coupon.]  
[Just please, fucking call him off, okay?]

The next message was a picture of an open refrigerator that Steve assumed to be Sam’s. It was completely full, carton upon carton of buttermilk stacked to fill the entire space. The second picture showed the door, also filled, even the butter hatch stuffed with pint-sized cartons. Steve moved on to the subsequent messages, not sure whether to laugh or be abjectly terrified that Sam somehow thought _he_ was involved in this.

[I don't want to have to change the locks, again, and I don't know how he's doing it.]  
[He took my coffee, Steve!]

Another picture, this one of Sam’s hand clutching a coffee canister; inside of it, a gritty white powder.

[Who the fuck even SELLS POWDERED BUTTERMILK???]  
[He even hit the spare fridge in the garage!]  
[You both live five goddamned hours away!!!!]  
[For fuck's sake, there's a dairy truck outside my house right now, Rogers!!]  
[Now there's two!!]  
[Tell Hawkeye I surrender, okay?!!$?!!]

Steve was so confused that he almost dropped the phone onto the floor as it started ringing. There was a call coming in from _N. Rushman._ It was rare that he got a call from one of Natasha’s aliases, and – given the frantic texts from Sam – Steve felt rightly concerned. He tapped his thumb on the answer dot, bringing the phone to his ear. “Nat, are you alright? Is something going on?”

_“Truce.”_

“What… Natasha, what are you talking about?”

There was a long moment of silence before she spoke. “ _You don’t know.”_

“Know what? Are you alright?” He tucked the phone against his shoulder, perching on his stool, tugging on his socks, fully preparing to grab Clint and his shoes, then go help them. “Does this have anything to do with why is Sam sending me pictures of cartons in his refrigerator?”

 _“Probably, but… Don’t worry. I’m… We’re fine.”_ Steve was reticent to believe her. It sounded like she was speaking through gritted teeth. _“Can you tell Hawkeye I’m on the phone?”_

Codenames were never a good sign, but, “Hang on, he's downstairs.”

Steve hadn’t expected to see both Hawkeyes sat at the dining table; Clint his usual mid-morning self, Kate looking like she hadn’t slept in far too long. “Sorry, I didn’t realize we had company, but, um… Nat’s on the phone. Something about a truce? And Sam is sending me all these crazy texts…”

His words slid off as he caught sight of Clint’s growing smile. It lifted his cheeks, showing a bright flash of teeth and crinkling the corners of his grey-blue eyes, beautifully malicious.

“What happened?”

“Justice happened, Steve.” Clint nodded with a low chuckle.

Across from him, Kate mumbled. “And a fuck-tonne of driving. We’re _way_ past even, Barton.” She slumped forward onto her arms, cheek pressed to their table as Clint lightly patted her head.

“Just tell Nat she has the terms of her surrender… or she can try guessing the right solvent on her own.”

It was fucking cryptic, but the only response Clint offered, so Steve turned his attention back to the woman on the other end. “Well, Natasha, he said-”

“ _I heard. Have a good morning, Steve.”_

The call ended with a click. Steve slid his phone back into his pocket, glancing between the two archers sitting in the kitchen, arms crossing over his chest. “Does one of you want to tell me what’s going on?”

From her spot on the table, Kate groaned, pointing an accusing finger at Clint before letting her arm flop back onto the table.

“Our _friends_ made bets on the… _progress_ of our relationship, Smedes. Some of them in rather… _poor taste_ , according to Kate.” Clint clicked his tongue, head shaking in a disappointed little wiggle. “So – like I said – _justice_ happened.”

“They… _What?!”_ There had been a _bet_ on them? Steve balked. Nobody would have bet on them getting together if they hadn’t thought it was _possible_. But that meant their friends had known _something_ was, or could be, going on with him and Clint… and _no one_ had bothered to _mention_ it to _him?!_ Some _fucking_ friends he had, to leave him twisting in the wind for months when one of them – even just one – could have said someth-! He hadn’t meant to, but Steve could tell by the way Clint twitched that he’d slipped into his work voice when he asked, “Wait, which _friends?”_

“Hawkeye only knew about Sam, Nat, and Tony, but-

“ _Tony?!”_

•°☆°•

Clint didn’t hear Steve use the full on _Captain America is Disappointed_ voice inside their apartment all too often, and he tensed further automatically. “Yeah?”

“I see.” Steve’s eyes went cold, and then they were focused on his phone. He punched at it, then lifted it to his ear, hand over the receiver, “I’ll be back down in a few. Thanks for stopping by, Kate.”

She grumbled into the tabletop.

“Um… Smedes?”

The call must have connected; Steve held up his hand with an apologetic smile, already starting up the stairs. “And good morning to you, too, Pepper… No, no, everything’s _fine._ I really should have apologized about the ice cream, and- … That’s very nice of you, I’m sure we’d love to, but I also had a question… Well, only, is Tony a _regular_ gambler, or was this bet just a one time thing? … I see… Well, I probably shouldn’t have _assumed you knew_ anythi-”

His boyfriend finally closed the solar door, cutting the conversation off, but Clint had to chuckle. Sam and Natasha might end up getting off pretty easy; Steve was enough of a troll all on his own when he set his mind to it, but Clint shuddered to think about what might be in store for a man that had crossed both Steve Rogers _and_ Pepper Potts.

Clint gently patted Kate’s arm with one hand, pushing her coffee closer with the other. “Thank you for your help, Kate. I mean it.”

She lifted her head with a yawn, then pushed herself up to seated. “You’re happy. It’s good to see.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m in line for body disposal, right behind Natasha and Agent Coulson.” She could be sweet, sometimes, even if that last line would have sounded horribly threatening from most people.

“I know.” They lapsed back into silence, Kate slowly draining a pot of coffee as Clint scrolled through the pictures she’d taken as proof of her successful mission at Sam’s house. Hitting both him and ‘Tasha on the same night had taken coordination. There had been no way he could drive to and from DC without arousing suspicion from Steve; hitting all of Nat’s safe houses in less than six hours had been hard enough, and he had _still_ been worried he might wake Steve up when he finally got home.

Speaking of Steve, though, he was coming back down the stairs, hard smile still set on his face as he leaned in to kiss Clint’s cheek. “So, apparently to end your reign of terror, Sam paid for two year-long passes to that buffet I like.”

“Aww, Smedes, no…” It would save a lot of money – not that they couldn’t still dip into _the buffet bag_ as he’d come to think of that stupid backpack – but there was still the major issue that _he_ really couldn’t be eating that much too often, even if Clint did like the idea of getting a free date with Steve out of it. “We’re not all enhanced, you know? We go too often, and I’m gonna get chunky.”

Steve nosed in against the top of his head. “I can think of ways to work it off…”

Across the table, Kate muttered down into her coffee. “Please stop talking, I don't need any _more_ nightmares about your debauchery; I live _downstairs.”_

Clint almost groused about her not coming by if she didn’t want to be exposed to this, but then remembered he’d invited her up to thank her for her help. He held his tongue in check, mostly, though he did make a point of obviously eyeing Steve’s ass as he answered her. “Fine, but I need the _Hawkeye_ shorts back for a day or so.”

“Well there goes _that_ Halloween costume. Bad enough knowing they touched _your_ junk, but…” Kate threw up her hands in a dramatic huff, then slumped over the back of the dining chair. “You can just _say_ you want me to leave, Barton. Unlike either of you, I can take a hint.”

“We don’t want you to leave, but…” Steve sat in the chair next to her, head tilted just to the side, voice not quite the pleading tone Clint had received – and to which he’d inevitably caved _every_ time – as he asked her. _“I_ would like you to tell us who _won_ this damn bet, though. Please, Hawkeye?”

Kate blinked, then turned to stare back at Clint. “You’re right, that _is_ dangerous. _That,”_ she tipped her chin at his boyfriend as she stood up, “is a pout for the ages, but I’m still not telling you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like you both, Clint. And, when you're not being a total garbage fire-” Here, she turned a mild glare back to his boyfriend. “- or a fucking troll, I actually respect both of you, too. But I'm not _afraid_ of you.”

Kate shook her head with a shudder and stepped back from the table. “I’m sure you’ll know soon, enough.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Lucky was pawing the door when Steve came down the stairs. He grabbed the leash, hooking him up as quickly as he could, sliding into his tennis shoes. It had snowed a little, but they weren’t so far into November that he needed boots, yet. “I got you boy. Let's hit the streets.”

With Lucky hooked up, Steve opened the door, walking straight into a crackling riot of color in the hallway. “What the hell?”

•°☆°•

“It’s, it’s um…” A god-damned nightmare is what it was, and one Clint had _never_ , not in all his darkest dreams, imagined he’d come down to see first thing in the morning. “I _guess_ it’s a fruit basket?I mean, eggplant is _technically_ a fruit…”

“This is…” From where he stood at Clint’s side, Steve dazedly shook his head, looking squeamishly in the direction of the table. “It’s just so fucking _wrong_ , Clint.”

The fruit basket in question sat over a metre high on their dining table; a tiered nightmare of eggplant, peaches, plums, and bananas, wrapped in sparkly purple and red cellophane, all tied together with an enormous silver bow.

Steve leaned in against him, huffing softly. “I completely understand why you did that to Natasha, if _this_ was how she was going to congratulate us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Note said _‘Welcome to the family.’”_ Steve reached into his pocket, pulling out a simple white card, folded in half. “Never knew Nat had such nice handwriting.”

Clint lifted it, turning it over before opening it. The note inside – written in a beautifully flowing script – was cryptic.

_Conditions for payout: First kiss in early to mid October following interference by at least one founding member of The Avengers Initiative._  
_Odds: 37 to 1._  
_Clint: Congratulations._  
_Steve: Welcome to the family._

“She… uh…” Clint could feel a slowly rising nausea in his gut as he looked from the looming tower of produce back down to card in his hand. “‘Tasha didn’t _win_ , and herhandwriting is terrible, Steve.”

“But it says _family?”_

“Yeah…” Clint nodded slowly, folding the card back up and putting in on the table next to what he could now say with certainty was a giant stack of innuendo wrapped in silver ribbon and cellophane. “Yeah, Steve, it _does_ say _‘family.’”_

“Right, but- Oh.” It was nice to know that things other than _him_ could make Steve blush, but his boyfriend went red so quickly that it should have made him dizzy from the drop in blood pressure. “Oh… Ooooh…!”

Clint shook his head. He wasn't sure how he was even going to make it through the SHIELD senior agent strategy meeting tomorrow. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sigh as Steve slowly dissolved into a stuttering confusion beside him. “Seven-point-three…”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Steve really _did_ run hot. That was the only explanation for him being comfortable in nothing but a heavy plaid flannel and long-sleeved t-shirt during New York’s November. Especially not when it had been snowing sideways just an hour ago.

Though he bundled up, tucked warmly under the nested hoods of two sweatshirts, and with his heavy boots on, just looking at him sent a shiver down Clint’s spine. Of course, after a minute or so of ogling, a second shudder zinged right back up, because, yeah, Clint might have _felt_ cold, but Steve looked so… _so…_

•°☆°•

“I can’t believe you think this works. I mean, you look-” Clint made a choked off groaning sound, and Steve felt his boyfriend’s hand slip into the back pocket of his jeans as they walked, side-by-side, with Lucky in front. “Fucking hot as hell, but it's not a disguise.”

The beard hid most of his blush and the knitted beanie covered his ears, so it wasn't _so_ obvious that Steve was getting embarrassed. Combined with the sunglasses, they meant he could spend the day out on an actual date with his boyfriend, all while being able to ogle Clint as much as he wanted without getting weird looks. Steve draped his arm over Clint's shoulder. “It works just fine.”

“Only at making me wish we weren’t out.”

“I don't look good in flannel?” Steve bumped his hip sideways into Clint’s, sending them both into a slight stumble.

Clint checked him back with a chuckle, dropping his head onto Steve’s shoulder, gazing up at him with a smirk. “Just flannel? Cause, I mean, if we were home…” His words trailed off as he waggled his eyebrows.

Steve squeezed him in a half-hug. Despite his boyfriend’s grumbling, their second day of secret dates had gone off without a hitch so far.

Clint rarely got spotted out of uniform, and Steve had been away for two weeks, so no one had really gotten pictures of Captain America with the beginnings of a real beard. Even if it _had_ taken two months longer than he’d planned, they _had_ gotten to go to a ballgame yesterday – it had been basketball, and the court had been so far away he’d had to rely on Clint to tell him who was who, but still – they’d even been able to get pizza afterwards without any interruptions, emergency or otherwise.

Today was shaping up to be another surprisingly relaxing one as well. At least, until there was a tug against his other hand as Lucky strained on the leash. The dog lunged, jumping, just as Steve saw a skittering ball of white fluff in a red coat bounding toward them, trailing its own matching red leash. Steve thought to reach for it, but Clint was faster

The dog barked squeakily as Clint caught it one-handed. Tiny legs squirming, the poor excuse for a dog yapped excitedly, lolling out a tongue that seemed far too long for its tiny fluff of a head.

A muffled voice echoed from the same direction the little thing had come – “I am _so_ sorry!” – and the dog’s owner – pretty obvious by matching red coat, even ignoring the way she was waving her arms as she jogged over through the light snow – came to a huffing stop in front of them. She held out shaky hands for her tiny puff of a dog, blinking up at them apologetically from behind square framed glasses, a puff of frazzled hair, and too many scarves. “Sookah really is, and just... she gets away from me.”

Clint passed the wriggling tribble of barks back, and she hugged it in against her chest with one arm, her other hand held out in front of her, offered to shake. “Thank you so much. I’m sorry we interrupted you two.”

“It's okay; no big deal.” Clint grasped her hand, shaking firmly with a sharp nod. His boyfriend was a sucker for dogs, even the ones that Steve thought barely counted as dogs at all.

“Still, thanks for catching her. She gets going like that and just... anyway, you're a life saver and…!” The woman pushed he glasses up, then squeaked, sounding not unlike the yippy, wriggling pompom she held, and stared up at them over her glasses. “You’re-!”

“I… I hope this isn't creepy, and I swear it wasn't on purpose, but, um…“ she slipped her phone from her pocket, flipping it over to show the _Hawkeye_ case, complete with a little dangling bow and arrow charm. “Kind of a fan. Could I get a picture?”

“Uh…” Clint looked up at him, silently asking, and Steve nodded. They'd made it halfway through the day before their cover got blown; a worthy accomplishment. “Sure. Just me, or both of us?”

“Wait, who…” Confused hazel eyes blinking quickly, the woman’s head swiveled back and forth; from Clint, over to Steve, and then back to Clint again. She squinted, nose scrunched as her gaze finally settled on Steve, heavy brows drawn down until they pressed into the tops of her glasses frames. “Who’re you?”

Steve shrugged, quite happy to remain unremarked as he shook her still offered hand. “Just his boyfriend.”

Clint huffed beside him, elbow digging into his ribs.“Oh, come on, Steve, really?”

“ _Clint…”_ He started to speak, but was cut off by an indignant, high-pitched squawk. Steve turned back to see the woman beside them pointing an accusing finger, the look on her face settling somewhere between righteous fury and manic glee.

“You’re-!?”

•°☆°•

Clint rolled his eyes, scrolling through his feed while he brushed his teeth. That picture was in here, somewhere; Sam had sent him a string of thumbs-up and kissy-face emojis right around three this afternoon, so he knew it had been posted. _Ah-ha!_ There it was, timestamped at 14:39.

**TarnishedUmber**  
**__** _Lost little Bitch-Baby in the park - It's so big! Lucky me, she ran straight into two guys on their date. Luckier me, I got the autograph of a lifetime! I'm still squeaking like a fucking pterodactyl over the side-hug! His boyfriend was really nice, too! (And THE LUCKIEST guy, ever, RIGHT?!)_  
_#hawkeye #the_amazing_hawkeye #real_life_heros #dogs #dog_stories #hotties_in_flannel #superheros #arms #arm_candy #cute_couples #beards_ &_plaid #new_york_trip #birthday_buddies_

The first picture was incredibly crowded. Cramming three tall people and two dogs into one selfie was no mean feat, but they’d all squeezed in; Clint on one side, Steve on the other, the woman between them with a dog under each arm. She’d promised to tag them, and to _not_ tag Steve… for a price. Clint sighed, but perked up when he noticed the _second_ picture that had gone up at the same time.

It had been taken afterwards, and the single sentence caption said it all: _The Amazing Hawkeye and his Mysterious Boyfriend!_

Clint still wasn’t sure he wanted the _entire_ world to see it, but… He could admit that it _was_ a good picture.

He and Steve had been walking away, his hand once more settled in Steve’s back pocket, his boyfriend’s arm draped around his back, hand resting on his shoulder. Steve had stopped, pointed out something – a squirrel in a bow, he’d said, which sounded ridiculous – and taken advantage of Clint’s momentary distraction to kiss him.

Steve leaned in against his back, chin settled on his shoulder. “Told you it would work. Even if you _did_ blow my cover.”

“At least she didn’t tweet out your name.”

“Mmm.” Clint got a facefull of scruff as Steve kissed his cheek, then pulled back to let him rinse and spit. “Do _all_ your fans blackmail you into breakfast coffee on their birthdays, or just the crazy ones?”

“I don’t have _that_ many fans, but they’re all crazy ones.” He shook his head, shoving his brush under the running water, then tucking it back into the cabinet before he followed Steve to bed. He shimmied tightly in against Steve’s side, relishing the warmth he put out even more now that it was getting so chilly. “Are all of you Fourth of July people _also_ morning people?”

“Only ones that are crazy about you?” His boyfriend wrapped him into a hug, cuddling close as snow drifted past their window.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Steve hadn’t planned to _need_ a new tux, but then, he hadn’t planned to be shot doing a diplomatic event the Monday after Thanksgiving, either. Thankfully, being able to get discreetly fitted at the tower was one perk of knowing Tony, so he’d be appropriately attired for New Year’s. Steve might still not be able to dance worth a damn, but he at least wanted to look good; he knew from recent experience that Clint would be dressed, quite literally, to kill.

“It’s been _so_ good seeing you, Steve.” Pepper Potts leaned in to give him a hug, going up on her toes, even in heels, to whisper. “You’re all set.”

“Thank you, Pepper.” He meant it, in multiple senses, giving her a truly wicked smile as Tony grabbed his arm and dragged him to the elevator.

“You know you're still welcome to drop by anytime, now that you’re less of a mopey sad-sack.” The doors closed behind them with a soft _whoosh_ as the car began to descend. Tony settled in beside him, arms crossed over his chest with a knowing smile. _“_ I mean, I can move a bigger bed into your apartment. Into either one, really.” He snapped his fingers with an excited nod. “Structurally, I can just take the wall out, if you need a little more… _space.”_

“Yeah, I know Tony.”

“Good. Because I was getting over that whole thing where you only showed up to party or eat my food and mope.”

“I promise; I’ll stop by.” Steve’s chuckle at Tony’s pouting was genuine. The older man did look honestly a little upset, and Steve could admit he hadn’t been the best example of a friend in the past few months. Not that Tony had been, _either_ – not by any stretch of the imagination – but still, Steve could admit that he hadn’t been good company. At least, not until recently after that party. Speaking of, though, “Tony, just to be clear: The New Year’s party is a date. _Neither_ of us is going to be working.”

“Right, of course not, no, no…” Stark shook his head vehemently. “I mean, you're still kind of famous, Rogers, so some of that's just gonna happen, but no; _I_ won't plan _anything.”_

His tone pivoted, from placating to near accusing, turning on a dime as Tony started in on him. “Although I’ve gotta say, I _am_ pretty put-out to see that the beard's gone. _Again._ I swear, Steve; every time I think we can finally get a snap together, you shave the damn thing off!”

“Just pose with Sam; he actually _likes_ having one.” Steve feigned embarrassment as he looked away to the floor of the elevator car with a shrug.“I wanted to at least be _recognizable_ in the pictures, Tony.”

“Yeah, I saw that tweet.” Tony rocked on his heels in the lift car, hands in his pockets, the picture of false innocence. Steve only had to wait a minute before the other man’s mouth pulled into a wry smirk and he dropped a prying question. “So. January is a year for you two, right?”

“As _roommates,_ Tony. Otherwise…” Steve had been counting – down to the day in a manner that would probably have made JARVIS proud – but he didn’t want to sound obsessive. Especially not with Tony Stark looking every bit the smug little asshole as he grinned up at him. Steve offered a smile back, fighting to keep it looking appropriately sheepish. “A little over two months, officially.”

“Right, right. _Officially.”_ Tony fucking winked, and Steve internally cheered at his successful deception.

He wasn’t a horribly vindictive person, no matter what Clint or Kate, or – once he’d told her what he needed her help with – even Pepper claimed. Steve Rogers considered himself _appropriately_ vindictive, at worst. However, he had no doubts that, given his very _direct_ hand in Steve’s nearly failed attempts at romance, Tony Stark _deserved_ to learn exactly what Steve’s _worst_ could be. He’d brought this on himself, after all; what was about to happen was only a well-earned – and comparatively mild – comeuppance.

Steve eyed the numbers as they counted down. He had eight floors. _Perfect._ “Listen, Tony, I never got the chance to thank you for your help.”

“You _did_ thank me. You thanked me so long I was late, remember?”

“No, I mean, for afterwards.”

“You really don't need to thank me for that, Steve.” Tony cleared his throat and scooted a bit further away from him, well and truly wedged into the corner now, bringing up his palm as if he could literally stop Steve from talking. “Honestly, I really don't want to know, and that’s… that’s a real boundary crossing thing right there, so – yeah – no need to thank me for _that.”_

“No, Tony, I really should. I mean, I know I put you out quite a bit, especially since I waited so long past April…” Steve turned to look at him, finally able to relax and let that sharp-edged smile up onto his face. “I just couldn’t do it properly on my own.”

 _“Okay…?”_ Tony didn’t move as the elevator slid to a stop.

“Goodnight, Tony.” Steve finally turned away from him as the doors slid open onto the lobby. He looked up at the little blue light beside the camera, waving his fingers as he stepped off the lift. “And goodnight, JARVIS. Could you activate the _T-shirt Protocol?”_

“Of course, Captain Rogers.” Steve was sure he didn’t imagine the lilting chuckle in the AI’s voice when he answered. “Enjoy your evening.”

Tony asked after him – “Steve? What’s going on?” – but the music was already starting, picking up mid-song – _drinker drinker drinker drinker suteki na sekai wa_ – softly drifting out of the lift car as he walked away.

Steve looked back just in time to see the doors slide closed, Tony’s face already looking panicked on the other side of the glass-walled car as it ascended. At one-eighth speed, of course. He slid his phone from his pocket, tapping out a quick message to Pepper.

 **Steven G**  
[ _He’s all yours._ ]

 **SpicyPepper**  
[ ( o ᴗ ᴖ) ]  
[ _Thanks, Steve._ ]

 **Steven G**  
[ _Don’t kill him?_ ]

 **SpicyPepper**  
[ _Way to ruin my fun, Rogers!_ ]  
[ ( •̀o•́ ) ]

Steve laughed to himself as he stepped out into the crisp December air. Whatever was left of Tony’s sanity after eighty-seven floors of _Drinkee_ and _Drinker_ was in for quite the… _discussion_ with Ms. Potts.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Public holidays rarely meant actual time off in their line of work, but the festivities around New Year’s had been surprisingly quiet. Yes – he and Clint had _both_ wound up having to work on New Year’s Eve, anyway, which, of course, meant they were now _both_ in need of new suits – but things had settled down quickly soon after. Enough so that, right around the time he’d moved in the year previous, he and Clint had ended up with a week off together, barring actual emergencies.

When he’d woken up this morning Steve had already had everything planned. Finish the cityscape that – even after a year – he was only just putting the last touches on as a gift for his… well, he’d _started_ it when they were still roommates, but now he’d get to give it to his _sweetheart._ Starting at five, he’d be able to add the last few highlights easily, and still have plenty of time left over to make coffee and breakfast to bring up for Clint. Of course, breakfast would be instant oatmeal – even _he_ couldn’t screw that up – and coffee, but it was the best he could do with the guarantee that his boyfriend wouldn’t wake up to their kitchen on fire. And, when they were both snuggled back in with their coffee and breakfast, Steve could finally say what he’d wanted to for months. It would be _perfect._

Well, it _would_ have been perfect.

The morning had started so well, too; painting done, coffee on, oatmeal made and on the tray with coffee right on time. And then he’d gotten to the top of the stairs. And realized he’d left his palette on a towel on the headboard of his former bed. And remembered that Lucky had gotten into the habit of sleeping there once it was clear all three of them wouldn’t comfortably fit in the main bedroom.

Lucky had decided _not_ to be a good boy this morning, and determined that the more _fun_ thing to do would be to pull the paint palette down onto the bed and roll in it.

Steve had only just managed to put the tray down on the milk-crate nightstand and get to the paint covered dog when Clint began to stir. Awake Clint meant good morning doggy kisses, of course, and Steve was left with just a moment to blink before he was assailed by a whirlwind of fur and paint and drool, the dog bounding over him, trailing the paint covered towel, headed straight toward his unsuspecting boyfriend.

Clint was putting in his hearing aids when it happened, yawning muzzily into his hand. With one well-timed lunge, Lucky had sent him to the floor, along with both milkcrates and plywood, and all the contents of the breakfast tray.

Steve had watched the Benny Hill show a few times with Sam. It wasn’t really his sort of humour, but he got it. And, now, he’d lived it. All that was missing was the annoying music. Between the paint, the coffee, and the oatmeal, the carpet was a lost cause, as were large portions of both the bedroom and solar walls. By some miracle, Steve had left his afghan downstairs the night before, but all of the linens on his former bed would probably have to be tossed out. Though, luckily, it wasn’t like he slept in there, anymore. It might be better to just move the bed out. _Later_. Right now, he needed to start getting the paint out of his hair. Clint would be back soon, possibly with Hawkeye in tow, and he was hardly ready for company.

Steve turned on the shower spray, stepping in as soon as it was warm. Thank fuck; Clint had put in a new water heater when they were doing all of those repairs, so he wouldn’t have to rush this.

•°☆°•

Clint was still panting, Lucky cradled in his arms, when Kate opened the door to her apartment. “It’s barely eight in the morning. You want to tell me what happened, Hawkeye?”

“I really just want to get the dog into your tub, Hawkeye.” He pushed past her, headed for her bathroom, just hoping Lucky wouldn’t decide to flail and splatter her apartment, too. “Ours is kinda full right now.”

“It wasn’t because of anything kinky, right?” Kate trailed behind him before scooting past, opening the bathroom door so that he didn’t have to touch it. “I mean, you do you – or Steve, whatever – but if you’re going to use my bathroom afterwards-”

“Kate,” Clint rolled his eyes as he set Lucky in the tub. With on hand on his hip, he turned around to glower down at her. It wasn’t like he had _planned_ to wake up to this nightmare.“It’s just a little accident with the dog and some-” Clint sniffed his hand. Lucky him, it was only, “- watercolour paint. That’s all.”

“And Steve, right?” His fellow hawkeye crossed her arms over her pyjamas, head tilting to the side. “Who is upstairs and, I’m guessing, _also_ covered in paint?”

“It’s _watercolour,_ Kate; it washes off.”

“Right, but what you’re telling me is that you left Steve, covered in paint upstairs-” She pointed ceiling-ward, tone growing more pedantic by the word. “- while you have come down to my apartment, _naked_ and covered in paint?”

Clint patted his hand against the coffee-soaked, paint-splattered terrycloth wrapped around his hips. That he had managed that and even one of his aids had been a miracle, especially after the wake-up he had just survived. It wasn’t high fashion, but he was not – as she so pissily put it – ‘ _naked.’_ “I have a _towel.”_

“You really aren’t putting this together, are you?” Kate’s face fell into her palm as she muttered out her questions. “Should I get the pushpins and string? Make a diagram?”

“What?”

“You-” She jabbed her finger into the one spot on his arm _not_ covered in in watercolour, coffee, or slowly crusting flecks of oats. “-are _nearly_ naked and covered in paint, and your boyfriend is upstairs-” Again, she pointed directly above them, where the soft shush of the shower had only just started. “- and _he_ is covered in paint, and, presumably, also about to be _actually_ naked-”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re asking to use _my_ shower? The shower _without_ your paint-splattered, _definitely now naked_ boyfriend in it?!”

“I-” Clint’s brain ticked over. Once. Twice. Ah, there is was: The overwhleming feeling that he had just done something very, very stupid. He turned to look at the dog – “Lucky, stay.” – before barrelling past Kate, out through her apartment and back into the hallway.

Kate’s voice echoed in the corridor behind him. “Don’t let me hear anything, Hawkeye!”

He shouted back, already halfway up the stairs. “Sorry, can’t hear you, Hawkeye!”

•°☆°•

He hadn’t bothered to lock the bathroom door because it would have been pretty pointless, anyway; Clint hadn’t managed to fix it, and Steve hadn’t expected anyone to come barging in. He only just managed _not_ to strike as Clint’s head whipped around the curtain.

“I’m an idiot!”

“Fuck, Clint!” Steve wasn’t sure whether to laugh or only nod his head in agreement. “Yeah, maybe, because I almost punched you.”

“I am _so_ sorry.” Clint was still wearing that paint-soaked towel, looking like a sheepish mess as he stood on the other side of the curtain. “I should have just jumped straight in here with you.”

He chuckled, pushing wet hair out of his eyes. “Well, take your aid out and come on, then.”

His boyfriend nodded, dropping the towel, yanking out the hearing aid to set on the edge of the sink, and stepping under the spray with him. Clint pulled Steve into a hug, face nestled against his neck, tucked close to him all the way down; an absolute mess of a man who fit exquisitely in his arms. Clint squeezed him, pressing a light kiss to Steve’s cheek as he leaned back, eyes soft, gray and blue and perfect, voice just this side of too low, though Steve had little trouble hearing him. “Hey, I mean it. I’m sorry I’m such a spaz.”

“It’s part of why I love you.” The words dropped out of his mouth before he thought about it, and Steve froze. Neither of them had- It had all seemed too new to risk- But, then, it _had_ been three months, and this _was_ an anniversary of sorts, so he had planned- Not like _this_ , but- Clint couldn’t really hear him anyway-

“Steve?” His boyfriend’s hand, still dripping with colour as the paint ran off, waved in front of his face. Clint was staring at him, jaw slack, eyes wide and searching. He spoke slowly, staring at Steve’s face all the while. “Did you just…? What did you just say?”

This was it. Steve could _do_ this. Had done this, already, over and over in his head – in his _dreams_ , for fuck’s sake – and just now, even without meaning to. Maybe it wasn’t _ideal_ , but neither was he, neither were _they_. He and Clint were fucking awkward disasters; what could be more fitting than telling him now? Steve meant it, and he would say it. And he _did_ say it, watching Clint’s eyes flicking between his lips and his hands all the while. “I love you, Clin-” _‘I LOVE YOU, H-’_ Steve nearly got the ‘ _H’_ to his forehead, nearly got all of Clint’s name out, before Clint was on top of him, knocking Steve back against the tile with a trip that sent them both sliding down, both of them ending curled together in the bottom of the tub, an awkward pair of perfect disasters.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Kate rolled her eyes up at the ceiling. She was happy for them, really, but – _Jeezus!_ – they were so _fucking_ loud, and so _loud_ when they were fu-! She pressed her face into her hands with a groan.

She could afford to move out. Kate had the money, and the building didn’t really need _three_ Avengers living in it. She could go back to California, maybe? That had been nice, if, as much as she hated to admit it, a little lonely. She could always stay here, just somewhere else in the city, but that still meant going somewhere without a built-in someone to hang out with. And she couldn’t _permanently_ steal Lucky away; even if taking away Steve’s adopted dog baby wasn’t _literally_ a federal crime, that _face_ sure made it feel like it was.

Kate sighed. She’d just have to go in for a bigger place and start looking for a roommate, damnit.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> •°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•
> 
> Just a few notes to wrap up.
> 
> First off; yes: I did self-insert in this fic. With all the rest that I’ve done to these poor fellows, _I_ can’t _possibly_ be the _worst_ thing to which Clint and Steve have been subjected.
> 
> The two songs mentioned in the elevator were [_Drinker_ by Kyary Pamyu Pamyu](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AlCL2vRqx8Y) and [_Drinkee_ by Sofi Tukker.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dlF1KxtArCg) They show up alphabetically in one of my playlists, and – as much as I love both – I can assure you that listening to just the two of them on loop would make me crazy (read: _crazier_ ).
> 
> And lastly; yes: Phil won. Strike Team Delta Rule 7.3 exists for a reason.
> 
> •°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°• 


End file.
